


Maybe, Maybe

by lysscor



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insomnia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, because BOI, did I mention slow burn?, this is the slowest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:54:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12841593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysscor/pseuds/lysscor
Summary: The light was on again. The one in room 307. Richie wondered, not for the first time, who was up there.Maybe one day, he would find out.*In which two insomniacs who have never met find comfort in the last place they would think to look - each other.





	1. When You Can't Sleep At Night

**Author's Note:**

> Another multichapter fic I'll probably never finish? On MY account? It's more likely than you think  
> (I actually do have a vision for this as well as a couple friends who will kick my ass if I don't complete it, so this might just end up being my first ever completed multichapter fic) (keyword is "might")
> 
> I don't know a whole lot about insomnia, so this is mostly based on what little experience I've had dealing with it. If you have experienced insomnia and notice anything I write about feelings or side effects is inaccurate, let me know!

A cheerful tune filled Eddie Kaspbrak’s apartment as the clock on the wall struck two. This cheerfulness was not shared by the apartment’s sole occupant, who - though much amused by the clock at first - had grown to find the thing nothing short of irksome over the years. Not for the first time, he told himself he really ought to disable it. Also not for the first time, he found he couldn’t be bothered to get up from his place at the window.  _ Later _ , he vowed, glaring at the still singing clock from across the room with a mix of frustration and exhaustion.  _ I’ll shut it off later _ .

Finally, the clock fell silent and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief. He was certain he would have that damn tune stuck in his head for the rest of his life. He found himself humming it sometimes, and always stopped himself with mild disgust before swearing to disable the clock when he had the chance. Now, he shook his head as if to clear it of the song - which was already beginning to repeat in the back of his brain - and turned back to the window. He took a breath, revelling in the profound silence that only the dead of night could bring.

That was another thing. It was bad enough he had had to hear the clock’s tune every hour, on the hour for the last two years, but he doubted  _ anyone  _ would be glad to hear joyful piano music resonating from their clock at two in the morning. 

Not that it had woken him up. No, for that he would have had to have been sleeping - which he hadn’t done for more than an hour at a time in at least a week now. And he couldn’t even remember the last time he got more than four hours of sleep in a night. That was what was really annoying about the damn clock - it was just an hourly reminder that he was still awake and sunrise was drawing nearer and nearer. 

It had been almost three years since his insomnia had started. When he’d finally moved away from home, at nineteen years old, it had been with mixed emotions. Relief, to finally be free of his overbearing mother, and fear. For as controlling and overprotective as she was, life with her was  _ safe _ . It was comforting -  _ she _ was comforting. She had always sheltered him, always protected him, so the thought of being on his own had been terrifying. 

Naturally, he had chalked up his sleeping troubles to that fear, and to the unfamiliarity of his new life. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and his insomnia had only seemed to grow worse - he figured he should probably do something about it. Sleeping pills had worked at first, but after about a month his body appeared to have adjusted to them and they lost their effect. He’d tried different brands, but to no avail. Tips and tricks from friends and from books had little to no effect as well. Now, after three years of progressively less sleep, he had more or less given up.

The lack of sleep had definitely taken its toll. He was much paler than he used to be, and the shadows under his eyes were so dark he looked almost dead. His head was in a near constant state of pain, light hurt his eyes in a way it never had before, he was far more irritable than he once had been (which was saying something, as he’d never been the most easygoing of people), and he often found himself spacing out or even dozing off at work or in class. 

In short, it sucked. But, as was the case with all of his other medical conditions, he was almost used to it by now.

Almost.

 

***

 

It was three thirty in the morning and Richie Tozier was freezing fucking cold. He’d lit a cigarette and was taking long, slow drags on it as he walked, effectively turning his fingers into blocks of ice. He didn’t mind. At least he was feeling something.

It had been roughly five years since he’d started consistently having trouble sleeping. Stan always told him that he was an insomniac, that it wasn’t healthy, that he should see somebody about it. Richie disagreed. Mostly because calling it “insomnia” made it sound like he had some kind of disease; like there was something wrong with him. He didn’t see it that way. Personally, he thought it was something of an accomplishment. Sure, he was tired pretty much all of the time - but he also had at least four hours more in a day than people who slept a “healthy” amount. Besides, he was functional. So really, what was so bad about it?

He veered off the sidewalk a bit, just so he could sweep his feet through the patch of fallen leaves in the grass beside him. They crunched under his feet, satisfyingly loud in the silence of the night, brittle from the cold and the frost that had begun to coat the nighttime world in recent weeks. Feeling childishly gratified over kicking the leaves, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. His boot thudded softly against the pavement. 

He wasn’t entirely sure when he’d started doing this - or why, for that matter. But whenever he couldn’t sleep (which was every night) and he was feeling particularly shitty (which - recently - was also every night) he would grab his coat and some cigarettes and head out the door. The time, the weather - none of it mattered. He would just walk, with no destination in mind, wherever his feet happened to take him until they took him home - or until the sun came up. Whichever came first. 

He loved it. It felt like he was the only person in the world. It felt like he could do anything, say anything,  _ be _ anything. He could talk to himself in whatever stupid voices he chose. He could take off his shoes and walk barefoot, if he wanted (he had, a couple times - just because he could). No one was around to judge him, to mock him, to threaten him. No one was around at all. He could tell secrets to the night, his deepest and darkest, just to hear the words float away on the wind. It didn’t matter. Nobody could hear him. 

He was talking to the stars. He doubted they were listening.

 

***

 

Allegedly, if you spend enough time struggling with the same problem, you eventually find ways to deal with this problem. 

Allegedly. 

Eddie had found this to be quite true for everything other than his insomnia. But no matter how many sleepless nights he spent, he never could quite find a solution. The best he had found was ways to pass the time.

Reading never worked - his exhausted eyes would be so unfocused he could barely see the words on the page, much less make sense of them. Studying was in the same vein. For a while, he’d taken to laying on his back and staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the sleep he knew wouldn’t come. But that had only depressed him.

Instead, he’d decided to sit by the window and stare blankly down at the street below. He liked this much better. It was peaceful. Everything was always so slow and quiet at night, nothing like it was during the daytime. It was the only time Eddie felt like he could really breathe; like he could really think. 

He made up stories, those nights beside the window. Stories about himself - the dream version of himself, who was taller and cooler and much less shy - and about his friends and about characters who popped into his head. Stories about dragons and magic and love and coffee shops. His favourite stories, though, were the ones about passersby.

It wasn’t very often that cars or people would amble down the street below Eddie’s window at night. After all, most were asleep in their beds, like healthy, responsible adults (Eddie envied them). For each one that did pass, Eddie made up a story. He gave them names, and reasons for being out so late (more often tragic than not). He gave them fictional families, and imagined their careers and friends and ambitions. He thought of their hobbies, and what they’d eaten that day, and their most recent conversation with their spouse. He determined where they going, and where they had come from. He gave them life, at least in his own mind.

He wondered, in those brief moments before the people would disappear around the corner and the cars would speed off into the night, if he was right about anything about them. He wondered, in those brief moments, if they saw him too.

He doubted it.

 

***

 

The light was on again. The one in room 307. Richie wondered, not for the first time, who was up there.

 

***

There was one person Eddie saw beneath his window more than any other - Room 306. He lived in the apartment across the hall and he was out almost every night. There was no pattern to it. He never left at the same time, and he was never back at the same time either. Anywhere between midnight and five in the morning, Eddie would hear the door across the hall open, then close; keys would jingle, a lock would click, and footsteps would ring out then fade into silence as they disappeared down the hall. Exactly three minutes and twenty eight seconds later (Eddie had taken to counting), the figure of what looked to be a tall man would appear from where the apartment’s main entrance was and head out to the street. Sometimes he turned left. Sometimes he turned right. Sometimes he just stood there, as though unsure what to do. Then, invariably, he would walk away, and Eddie would follow him with his eyes until he disappeared from view.

Sometimes he was only gone five minutes. Sometimes he was gone hours. Sometimes he didn’t return until after Eddie had fallen asleep, if he returned at all.

 

He didn’t have a name; at least not to Eddie. He didn’t have a story, either, because no matter what scenario Eddie imagined, nothing seemed to fit him. So, he was just 306 - nameless, faceless, storyless. An ever present question mark in the clarity of the night.

Still, Eddie found himself looking forward to seeing 306 pass his window. His heart raced with excitement whenever he heard the tell-tale sound of the door across the hall opening. Eddie had never met 306 - never even seen his face - but somehow he felt like he knew him. They were both awake when the whole world was asleep. He felt like that made them connected, somehow. Linked by this small thing they had in common.

It made no sense. He knew that.

 

***

 

It was always on, that light. No matter what time Richie went wandering, that light was  _ always  _ on when he left and there was always someone sitting at the windowsill. He was too far away to tell much about whoever it was - just that they always seemed to be looking out the window, and they usually looked like they had their hands wrapped around a mug.

This window, this light, this person - it was a subject that dominated Richie’s thoughts a lot of the nights, as he walked. He wondered whether this person was like him - a person from whom sleep fled. Maybe this person lay awake in bed for hours, their skin crawling with restlessness and their eyes refusing to close. Maybe they tossed and turned the same way Richie did, before finally giving up and accepting another sleepless night.

Or maybe they were just afraid of the dark.

 

Maybe one day, Richie would find out. 

 

***

 

By the time 306 reappeared below Eddie’s window, it was nearly five in the morning and Eddie was nearly asleep. He’d been gone for quite a while this time - almost four hours. Given the rain that had started to pour about half an hour ago, he must have been freezing. Not for the first time, Eddie wondered where he possibly could be going, these nights when he would disappear. Maybe it was for work. Maybe he had a job that required him to come in at strange hours, and followed no set schedule. Maybe he was doing something illegal - selling drugs or contracting murders. Maybe he just enjoyed the night time.

 

Maybe one day, Eddie would find out.

 

***

 

Footsteps. Keys jingling. Lock clicking. Door opening. Door closing. 

Eddie’s eyes fell shut.


	2. Carousel

Richie wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe it was a momentary lapse in sanity due to sleep deprivation. Maybe it was the joint he’d just finished off, fucking with his head. Maybe it was the fact that it had looked, for a split second from his spot down on the street, as if the person in room 307 had been waving at him.

Maybe it was just because the night was lonely. Maybe it was because Richie was too.

 

***

 

Eddie had never been more grateful for a Sunday. He’d gotten less sleep than usual last night - barely an hour total - and he would much prefer to be a dead-eyed zombie at home, surrounded by schoolwork and with an endless supply of coffee, than behind the till at the grocery store where he worked.

It wasn’t a terrible job - close to his apartment, fairly slow most days, open late enough for him to work night shifts. Plus it was closed on Sundays, which gave him a guaranteed day off every week to catch up on assignments or hang out with Bill. What was more, he got a thirty percent employee discount on all of his groceries.

This particular Sunday, he stayed curled by the window where he’d fallen asleep for nearly an hour after waking up. He was warm under his enormous pile of blankets and comfortable despite the awkward curve of his spine. The window had become fogged overnight; the early morning sunlight seeping through filled his apartment with a soft, warm light, dappled here and there by the dew on the glass. Eddie traced a smiley face with his finger and admired the effect. He wished he had a camera. Maybe he could sell his shitty clock and buy one.

He finally rose when said shitty clock announced seven in the morning. Keeping his blankets wrapped tightly around him, he trudged to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and throw some bread in the toaster. He leaned against the counter as he waited, looking around his apartment.

It was messy, even by his standards. Though he could be a tad (read: extremely) neurotic when it came to hygiene - including sanitizing every surface of his apartment _religiously_ \- he had always been much more lenient when it came to organization. You were hard pressed to find an inch of flat surface not taken up by books, pillows, appliances, and miscellaneous knick knacks. The coffee table - which doubled as a dining table, given the limited size of the apartment - was completely covered in papers, notebooks, pens and pencils from his most recent attempt at rewriting his class notes. The couch, with its mound of throw pillows and knitted blankets - all gifts from his mother - looked more like a bed than did his _actual_ bed, which had been stripped bare some months ago. Since he so rarely slept in his room anymore, he had moved his bedding to the window seat. He now pretty much only used his bedroom to store clothes in, and occasionally to lay on his back on the floor when his head was aching more than usual.

When his toast popped, he spread a generous amount of strawberry jam onto it and brought it and his cup of coffee to the couch with him. He figured today he would try to make some progress with his schoolwork, and maybe clean up a bit. Midterms were coming up this month and he was growing more and more panicked each time he looked at his messy, barely legible notes. How was he to study when he couldn’t even tell what he’d written? Sighing, he picked up a pen and got to work.

  


By ten o’clock, Eddie was fully immersed in political science. He had even managed to translate ten whole pages of chicken scratch into neat, colour coded notes, complete with headings, sub-headings and footnotes. He was just adding a footnote to his latest bullet point, elaborating on a definition, when the bright red telephone hanging from the wall began to ring.

Only two people ever called him: his mother, who was probably still asleep at this time of morning, and Bill. Eddie picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey Eddie!” his childhood best friend exclaimed from the other end of the line. “Are you d-d-d-doing anything today?”

Bill’s stutter had greatly improved over the years. It was practically gone, but it still cropped up now and then, especially when he was tired, nervous or excited, or (inexplicably) when he was talking on the phone.

Eddie spun the phone cord absently around his finger. “Not really. Just some school stuff, then I thought I’d get some cleaning done. Why?”

“W-w-well, I thought we could grab lunch or something - if you’re not t-t-t-too busy,” he added, somewhat apologetically.

Eddie glanced around - at all his unfinished classwork, at the jacket slung over the back of the couch, at the papers that had fallen to the floor during his note-taking, at the jar of peanut butter he had yet to put back in the cupboard after three days. Then he glanced at the door, and tried to remember the last time he’d left his apartment other than for school or work. He drew a blank.

“Sure,” he said into the phone. “I’ll meet you at The Spoon around two.”

  


The Golden Spoon Coffeehouse and Diner - or just The Spoon to those who knew it - was Bill and Eddie’s favourite restaurant. It was where they always went out to eat, and to catch up. The Spoon served the best pasta Eddie had ever had, and their burgers were to _die_ for. Plus, they served all day breakfast. Their waffles were so good that one bite once brought Eddie to tears. Seriously. He’d never tasted something so heavenly.

Eddie was there now, fifteen minutes early (as per usual) and waiting for Bill at their usual table by the door. He’d ordered himself a coffee. The Spoon had the best coffee in town, in Eddie’s humble opinion. Strong, but not bitter, with just the _right_ amount of underlying sweetness. Eddie loved it, usually couldn’t get enough of it. But today, he hadn’t yet touched his quickly cooling mug. He was staring, confused, at the small bit of paper in his hand.

He’d found it on the floor of his apartment, slid underneath the door frame. It looked like an old receipt, one that had been rubbed clean of any ink by virtue of having been folded and unfolded countless times. It had faded fold lines spidering across it and a tear near the middle, as though someone had hastily tried to straighten out its crumpled form. On it was scrawled a little note in red ink:

_Next time you find yourself awake at 4am, feel free to join me :)_

_-306_

Eddie had read the note five times, standing in his doorway, his heart climbing anxiously up to his throat. He’d stared at his closed apartment door, as if he could see straight through it to the room across the hall. It _must_ have been from the man whom Eddie saw walking every night. But _why_ ? He couldn’t have noticed Eddie watching him... could he? He was so far away… but then, Eddie could see him just fine. Who was to say it couldn’t go the other way as well? And he’d been _sure_ the man had been looking up at him last night - for a split second, he was even certain they had made eye contact.

And he had waved. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was delirious - he _had_ been half asleep at the time. Maybe he hadn’t thought 306 would be able to see him, that there was no harm in it. Or maybe he _had_ thought he would be seen. Maybe he’d even been hoping for it - hoping for _this_ …

His clock had chimed for one o’clock, startling Eddie out of his thoughts. With a resentful glare at the clock - he _really_ must deactivate it - he had left his apartment - but not before shoving the note in his pocket as surreptitiously as he could, as if to hide it from himself. Now, he had it out, and was reading the words over again with a sense of mingled anxiety and excitement.

_Next time you find yourself awake at 4am, feel free to join me :)_

_-306_

Should he go? He wasn’t entirely convinced it would be safe - he still had _no idea_ what 306 got up to during his evening strolls - but it seemed innocent enough. After all, 306 had added a smiley face to remove any trace of hostility. Or maybe he’d simply done that to lure Eddie into a false sense of security. Maybe he really _was_ a criminal. But then, what would he want with Eddie?

“Hey Eddie!” called Bill from the doorway, making Eddie jump about a mile and bang his knee on the bottom of the table. He hastily crammed the note back into his pocket, without really knowing why, and offered Bill a weak smile as he sat down.

“Hi,” he said, trying not to wince from the pain in his leg.

Bill gave him a curious look. “Are you okay? You p-practically flipped the table when you saw me.”

Eddie nodded a little too quickly. “Fine! I’m fine. Just - just tired, is all.”

Bill was regarding him as if he was deciding whether or not he should be concerned. Eddie imagined he could feel the note burning like hot coals in his pocket and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to tell Bill about it. He wasn’t sure why, and it made his stomach knot with guilt (they told each other _everything_ ) but it just... felt like something he needed to keep to himself.

He was spared the task of saying anything by the arrival of their waitress. Her name was Joanne. She had the look of someone who had once been very good looking, but years and cigarettes had taken most of her beauty. Her graying blonde hair was like straw, tied in up a bun, and her teeth were crooked and yellowing. She’d been working at The Spoon for about a million years, by Eddie’s calculation, and she knew all the regulars by name.

“Hey boys,” she said in her deep, scratchy smoker’s voice. “Been awhile since I’ve seen you two ‘round here. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

The boys grinned. They loved Joanne. She’d been their server nearly every time they’d come here and she had carved out a place for herself in both of their hearts.

“We’d never forget about you, Jo,” said Eddie earnestly.

“Y-y-yeah,” added Bill. “We’ve just been really busy.”

“Glad to hear it,” she sniffed. “Now, it’ll be the usual for you, I expect?”

They placed their orders - spaghetti and iced tea for Bill, a burger and another coffee for Eddie - and settled into their chairs. They talked about nothing for a while. Bill told Eddie, between bites of pasta, about the cute boy in his business class with the curly hair and the pet bird. Stan, his name was. Bill knew about the pet bird because Stan had brought it to class with him once. It had sat on Stan’s shoulder and eaten crackers out of his hand. Eddie told Bill about his new coworker who _definitely_ had a crush on him (“I hope she doesn’t ask me out,” he shuddered. “I don’t know how to reject her without hurting her feelings or telling her I’m gay and I don’t want to do either.”)

Bill didn’t mention the dark circles under Eddie’s eyes, or the way he looked even worse for wear than he usually did. Eddie didn’t mention the way Bill was stuttering more than usual, which almost always meant there was something wrong. That wasn’t what they talked about here. The Spoon was for jokes and smalltalk and catching up on the week’s events. Serious talk was forbidden. Serious talk was for Bill’s house, laying on his bedroom floor with a bowl of popcorn between them.

Eddie didn’t mention the note, either. He couldn’t quite say why.

 

***

 

Sometimes, Richie felt alone.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have friends. He did. He had Stan and he had Beverly and he had Ben. He had classmates who he talked to sometimes (mostly just to borrow a pencil) and his lab partner whose name he could never remember (it was something French, he thought) and that one barista who knew his order by heart and always had a new band to recommend. He had friends. He had _people_.

But none of them mattered in the dead of night. None of them mattered when the sun was down and the stars were out and there was no one on the streets but him. None of them mattered when he was alone, fully and completely, the way he only was at night.

Sometimes he loved that - being alone. But sometimes he couldn’t stand it. Sometimes it made his skin itch and his heart sink and his stomach turn to lead. Sometimes it turned his walks into jogs, as if he could outrun the loneliness he didn’t want to feel. Sometimes it made him want to scream, just to drown out the emptiness echoing in his skull.

Because sometimes alone was lonely.

Sometimes it carried over to the mornings. Sometimes he looked at Stan and felt like he was looking at him through a frosted glass window; or he listened to Bev talk and she sounded like she was underwater. Sometimes he would talk to them and his own voice would sound far away, as though he was hearing it from a distance. He felt like he was separated from them. Like there was an invisible wall between them. Richie’s _body_ was on the side with everyone else, but it was on auto pilot - laughing at things Richie would laugh at, making jokes Richie would make, doing things Richie would do. Meanwhile Richie - the _real_ Richie; his heart or soul or mind or whatever it was that made him _him_ \- Richie was on the other side of the wall, an isolated observer, wondering blandly what this empty shell of his would say next. He felt like he was alone, even when he wasn’t.

He wasn’t sure why he thought the person in room 307 could help. They didn’t know each other. They’d never talked, never met, never even seen each other at a close range. He didn’t even know whether the person was a boy or a girl. But he _felt_ like he knew them. They were both _awake_ , when it seemed nobody else in the world was. He felt like that was enough.

Maybe he was just crazy. He felt like that sometimes, too.

 

***

 

It was midnight. Eddie was in the kitchen, scrubbing the baseboards of his counters with bleach. He’d been cleaning for the last two hours, and he thought he’d done a pretty good job of it. His papers had been organized, his laundry had been folded, his clutter had been cleared. The kitchen was the final stage - scrubbing and wiping and sanitizing. His eyes were burning from the bleach, and his skin was starting to itch despite his rubber gloves. He didn’t mind. It just meant he was killing all the germs.

He told himself he was cleaning because he’d finally had enough of the mess. After all, he’d been planning on tidying up for nearly a month now - tonight was as good a night as any to get it done. He told himself that was it. He told himself there were no other reasons.

He was lying to himself. He knew cleaning was a distraction; a way to not think about the little red note on the table, and the invitation it presented. But if he acknowledged this, he would also be acknowledging the note. It glared at him, scorned him, challenged him. It tempted him, and terrified him. He did his best to ignore it.

He could have just thrown it out. He didn’t.

 

***

 

It was midnight. Richie was flat on his back, his stomach tied in a knot with nervous anticipation. He was positive 307 had gotten his note - he’d been careful to slide in right under the door, so the person would be _sure_ to see it if they left their apartment. And they _had_ left - around one o’clock that afternoon, when Richie had been working on his most recent script. He’d heard the door across the hall, heard the footsteps walking briskly away.

He knew the person had gotten his note. What he didn’t know was whether they would take him up on his offer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. He wasn’t sure he would like the answer.

 

***

 

It was one thirty in the morning. Eddie was sitting by the window, sipping peppermint tea to try to relax. It wasn’t working. He was still as tense as a coiled spring. The little red note was in his lap. The smiley face mocked him.

He had put his coat on and removed it again at least five times in the last ten minutes alone. He’d even gone to the door, for a bit, with his hand hovering above the doorknob, before his nerves had caught up to him and he’d backed away so quickly he almost fell over. Now, his coat was on the floor beside him and his shoes were on his feet and he was staring anxiously out the window for any sign of 306.

He didn’t know what he was going to do if he saw him, down there on the street. He didn’t know what he _wanted_ to do. He just wanted to see him. Maybe then he would make up his mind.

 

***

 

It was one thirty in the morning. Richie was sitting on the floor in front of his door, his head in his hands. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He _wanted_ to open the door, to go down the stairs, to get out on the street. The trouble was, he had no idea whether 307 would go too - and he so desperately wanted 307 to go. He was scared. Scared of being rejected, of being let down, of being just as alone as he always had been - but somehow moreso.

He wanted to go. But he was scared.

 

He didn’t know that across the hall, a man was in front of his own door, facing the same dilemma as Richie. Had he known, maybe it would have been easier. Maybe he would have made up his mind.

 

***

 

It was three in the morning. There was noise across the hall. Door opening, door closing. Keys jingling, lock clicking. Footsteps.

Eddie had made up his mind. Eddie stayed in his room.

 

***

 

It was three in the morning. Richie was waiting. Down on the street, in view of Room 307, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the window. The light was on. The person was there, too, nothing but a dark silhouette against the yellow light of the room. Richie got the feeling they were watching him, the way he was watching them.

He waited. He watched. He waited and waited and he watched and watched for what felt like an eternity. The person didn’t move. The light didn’t turn off. Nothing happened.

Richie swallowed his disappointment. He didn’t know what he’d expected.

Maybe the person was busy. Maybe they _weren’t_ like Richie, and they were awake by choice - working nights from their house or something. Maybe they had fallen asleep already - it wasn’t unheard of to fall asleep sitting up. Richie had done it enough times. Maybe they hadn’t gotten Richie’s note after all, and he was waiting on someone who had no idea they were being waited on. Or maybe they did know. Maybe they weren’t asleep, and they weren’t too busy to come walk with Richie.

Maybe they just didn’t want to.

 

***

 

It wasn’t that Eddie didn’t want to. It was just - this felt _huge_ . It didn’t really need to be a big deal - after all, it was just joining one person for a walk one time -  but to Eddie it _was_ . He was scared. _Terrified_. He told himself it was because he knew nothing about this person - meeting new people in general made him nervous, much less meeting mysterious men who walked about in the middle of the night. But there was more to it than that.

Eddie was a creature of habit. He liked routines. He liked _constants_ . And this routine was one of the most constant things in his life. He would sit by the window and watch the street below. He would hear a door open, door close, keys jingle, lock click, footsteps, and 306 would be outside. He would watch awhile longer, making up stories and counting cars, and 306 would reappear. Footsteps, keys jingling, lock clicking, door opening, door closing, silence. It happened every night, _in that order_.

The other constant was the mystery of it. He knew nothing about 306. As much as he wondered, and wished idly he knew more about this stranger - _he didn’t_ . He didn’t want to know any more about him than he already did - which was nothing! That was how he liked it! No matter what else was happening in his life, Eddie could always count on two things: he would always see 306 leave at night, and 306 would always be a giant mystery. These were _facts_ , as perpetual and irrefutable as the air he breathed. It was comforting in its consistency. He couldn’t just toss this out the window. It would uproot his entire way of life.

He needed his inhaler just thinking about it.

Bill would tell him this was a good thing. Bill would tell him it was important to step out of his comfort zone, to do things that made him nervous, or he would end up watching his life pass him by. This was an opportunity, Bill would tell him, and he should take it.

  


Outside, 306 turned and walked away.

Eddie didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed to see him disappear around the corner. He did know there were tears on his face; tears he didn’t remember shedding. He wasn’t sure what they were about - there were so many feelings rushing through him it was hard to keep track. He brushed them away.

The tears - and the feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at writing dialogue. Hence, not much dialogue. There will be more in later chapters, when reddie actually interacts (soon I promise!!) but for now - nope. None of that. Not if I can help it.


	3. Waiting

Listen. 

Richie Tozier was a lot of things. He was impulsive, he was hyperactive, he was “incorrigible” (according to his mother), he was “obnoxious” (according to most everyone). He was a genius when it came to academics, always at the top of his classes without even trying. He was, however, a complete moron when it came to other people, forever saying the wrong thing and never knowing when to shut his damn mouth. He was creative, he was (at least in his own mind) funny. He was skilled at impressions but he was awful at singing, and he was the best cook he knew.

Richie Tozier was a lot of things, but he was nothing if not persistent. Some (his mother) would argue that this was because he had an incurable stubborn streak, and always had. Others (Stan) would insist that it was simply because he never knew when to quit. Richie, however, liked to think it was part of his charm. He wasn’t “stubborn” - he was  _ determined. _ He didn’t “have a one-track mind” -  he was dedicated to the things he was passionate about, and would stop at nothing to realise his dreams.

Which was why he was standing below 307’s window for the third time in five days.

He hadn’t left his apartment at all for two days after 307 had failed to come outside - not even for class. He’d lied on the floor or on his bed or on his couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell was wrong with him (Stan always  _ had _ told him he was the biggest drama queen). He felt like he’d been dumped; like he’d been soundly and thoroughly rejected. Which made no sense. He didn’t even  _ know _ the person. Nothing in his life had changed. So why did he feel as though he’d lost something precious?

It had taken him a while to understand: it was because he  _ had _ lost something. The realization came with a bit of a start, at around two in the morning the third night. He’d lost an opportunity. For years now, he’d been looking up at the person in the window nearly every night, wondering who it could be. And now that he’d finally had a chance to find out, he’d messed it up. For some reason or another, 307 hadn’t come out to meet him. Richie didn’t know if he’d done something wrong, or if 307 just wasn’t interested. All he knew was that he’d lost his first chance in ages to do something, to  _ start something. _

But he wouldn’t give up so easily.

That third night, he’d flung himself from his bed and practically sprinted across his apartment. He was out in the hall in a heartbeat, and he’d stood there, heart pounding, staring at the outside of 307’s door. He’d wondered if he should knock; if he should invite 307 in person. That might be more effective, wouldn’t it? But then, he didn’t want 307 to feel pressured to join him. 

In the end, he’d shaken his head and left the door behind. Once outside, he’d stood in view of the window. The light was on. The silhouette was there. Richie’s heart leapt into his throat as he lifted an arm to wave.

Then he’d waited. He’d waited for what had felt like an hour but, when he’d checked his watch, had turned out to be fifteen minutes. The silhouette didn’t move. Richie had given a last longing glance, then turned, dejected, and walked away.

 

Had he known how close the boy in the window had been to getting up, Richie might have waited just a bit longer.

 

***

 

Eddie had always been an anxious person. He was anxious about germs and about meeting new people and about leaving the house without his inhaler. He almost always checked that he’d locked the door at least three times before going anywhere (up to ten if it was a particularly bad day). It took him ages -  _ ages _ \- to work up the nerve to try anything new. Every time he tried to do something that anyone else could do with no problems - talk to a stranger, or order something new from a restaurant, or go to a different restaurant entirely - his heart tried to escape from his chest and his body started trembling all over and he had to scramble frantically for his inhaler to calm his rasping breaths.

So naturally, something so monumental as disrupting the routine he’d lived by for the last two years of his life, and simultaneously meeting someone new was unthinkable.

But he wanted to. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to. It was all that ever seemed to occupy his mind nowadays. At work, in class, at night when he stared out the window - his thoughts always seemed to drift right back to 306, and to the note that was still on his coffee table. Eddie was so curious about him. What was his name? His job? How old was he? What did he  _ look _ like? The street was too far to tell anything about his appearance, so all Eddie could figure was that he was probably a man. And he seemed to have started waiting. Why had he started waiting?

 

***

 

When, for the third time in five days, ten minutes passed and the figure in the window didn’t move, Richie sighed, scuffed his feet as he turned to walk away.

Richie Tozier was a lot of things, but he’d never deemed “desperate” to be one of them. As he dug through his pockets for a cigarette, resisting the urge to look back to make  _ sure _ nobody was coming out of the building, he wondered whether he might need to reconsider.

 

***

 

Eddie had started waiting, too, after the fourth time. He would sit by the window, psyching himself up for when 306 inevitably came out. He could do this, he would tell himself. Tonight would be the night. 

Every time he heard the door open across the hall, Eddie would be at his own door in an instant, shoes and jacket on, keys in hand, ready to go. Every time he heard the door close, Eddie would freeze with his hand on the doorknob. He would listen to the keys jingle, the lock click, the footsteps fading out. He would stand there, tense and ready, willing himself to turn the doorknob, to open the door, to  _ step outside dammit _ . But he couldn’t. Because he would start to  _ think _ , and then he would start to worry, and then his heart would try to escape and his body would start to tremble and he would have to pull his inhaler from his pocket with useless shaky hands. And then he would sink down to his useless shaky knees, and he would take useless shaky breaths until he started to feel normal again.

At that point, he would go back to the window on useless shaky legs. 306 was always gone by then, and Eddie always felt like a failure.

When, for the sixth time in eight days, Eddie watched 306 turn his back, he sighed and dropped his head in his hands.

It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to meet 306. He just  _ couldn’t _ . So he’d given up. He’d stopped waiting for the sound of the door, had stopped talking himself into something that would never happen. He had stopped. But he hadn’t stopped  _ wanting to. _

He held the little red note in his useless shaky hands as he watched 306 disappear.

 

***

 

Richie kept waiting, even when there was no one in the window anymore. He still waited. He thought, maybe, if he waited long enough it would end up being worth it. Maybe it would turn out that 307 really  _ did  _ want to know him as much as he wanted to know them. Maybe there was a reason they hadn’t come out yet; a reason  _ other _ than not wanting anything to do with the strange man who went walking at night. 

So he waited. It was stupid, he knew. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for.

 

Probably nothing. Probably just disappointment

 

***

  
  


He wondered how long he could keep waiting.

  
  


***.

 

Eddie’s heart sank every time he heard that door open across the hall.

 

***

 

Richie’s heart sank every time he turned his back on that window.

 

***

 

This was going to be the last night, Richie decided after two and a half weeks of waiting. Of course, he’d decided this before - after six nights, after nine nights, after ten nights, after fourteen nights. But this time for sure. This time, he really was going to give up. He really was going to accept the fact that had all been for nothing, and he should just forget all about 307.

It was a lost cause. He supposed he’d known that from the start.

 

***

 

Eddie wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t planning on it. He wasn’t mentally preparing himself to do it. The thought never once even crossed his mind. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he was out the door and flying down the stairs by the time his brain caught up to him.

Maybe some part of his mind had had enough of his cowardice. Maybe he was sick of hiding all the time. Maybe he’d realized that hiding like this was exactly what his mother would want him to do, was exactly what he’d run away from when he moved away from her. Maybe he knew, somewhere deep down, that this was his last chance.

He crashed into a wall rounding a corner, running too fast to catch himself. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t want to give himself time to talk himself out of it. So he ran, skidded out the door of the stairwell, sprinted across the lobby. He ignored the confused look the receptionist must be giving him and burst through the front doors, into the night.

 

***

 

The figure was gone from the window. Richie didn’t dare hope.

 

***

 

He was there, under a street lamp, immediately visible from the building’s entrance. Eddie halted abruptly. Now that he was here, gasping for breath in the doorway, he had no idea what to do. His heart was pounding, though whether that was from nerves or the running Eddie couldn’t be sure. He wished he’d brought his inhaler.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, anxiety and regret creeping up on him. This was a mistake. This was a  _ mistake _ . He needed to go back inside, to take his inhaler, to hide under his blankets until he didn’t feel so damn  _ scared _ .

He was going to. He was about to. But then the man under the street lamp turned, and he saw Eddie, and he lifted his arm in a wave. 

With a useless shaky arm, Eddie waved back.

 

***

 

As the person in the doorway walked slowly towards him, Richie’s heart began to beat faster. He couldn’t believe this was happening. All his waiting, all his wishing, all his hoping - it  _ hadn’t _ been for nothing. The mysterious 307 had finally come out to meet him. He supposed it might just be to tell him to fuck off, but he considered even that a success. At least it was something.

As the distance closed between them, Richie realized it was a man. At least, he figured he was an adult man. He  _ looked _ like a boy, nearly a foot shorter than Richie and wearing a truly horrible knitted sweater. His hair, Richie noticed as he came closer, was about halfway between shortish and longish, and it curled ever so slightly at the ends.

He stopped, face to face with Richie, and Richie held his breath. The man was staring at the ground and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Hi,” Richie said after a moment.

“Hi.” He almost whispered it, his voice was so soft. And shaky. His voice was shaky. And he sounded strangely out of breath.

Richie was lost for words. Richie Tozier was  _ never _ lost for words. He always had something witty to say, always had something to fill the silence. But right now, standing in the dark with this stranger who had never really felt like a stranger, Richie had no idea what to say. There didn’t seem to  _ be _ anything to say.

So he said nothing. He gave an awkward sort of sweeping gesture with his arm, as if to say “Shall we?”. The other gave an uncomfortable little half nod, half shrug, as if to say “Why not?”. Richie stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and the other man tucked his hands in the sleeves of his sweater. 

The night was warm. The stars were bright above them.

They walked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure how much I like this chapter? But it's done so there's that and I'm VERY excited for the next one!!
> 
> Also if it was not obvious, my writing style for this fic is lowkey inspired by Kurt Vonnegut (short sentences, anaphors, "Listen") because he's gr10


	4. Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!! It's actually Christmas eve right now but still!! My Christmas gift to you and to myself: a finished chapter!!!!  
> (Side note, this may be my longest fic yet??? I'm proud of myself for making it this far)

They walked, and Richie couldn’t quite tell who was leading the way. He thought maybe neither of them was. Maybe both of them were at once. Maybe they were leading each other, following each other. Turning left here, right there, another right, a left, all without a single word of direction from either.

They walked, and Richie’s heart slowly lifted and Eddie’s anxiety gradually abated. It was nice. Comfortable. They didn’t feel like two strangers wandering side by side. They felt like old friends, strolling together as if they had a million times before. Neither was quite sure why. Maybe it was the spell the night cast upon them - an illusion of intimacy that was never there in the harsh light of day.

They walked, and they didn’t talk very much. Didn’t talk at all, really, save for a “Your shoe is untied,” from Eddie and a “Watch your step,” from Richie. Neither of them minded. It was a comfortable silence. They didn’t really need to talk, anyway. It was enough just to walk side by side, to know they weren’t alone. 

When they found themselves once again outside their own doors, they still didn’t talk. They parted without even a goodbye. Neither of them minded.

 

That night, they both slept better than they had in months.

 

***

 

“You look well-rested,” Stan commented the next afternoon, raising an eyebrow at Richie over a mug of coffee. It was Saturday, and the two of them were in the living room of Stan’s apartment.

“Cause I banged your mom last night,” Richie grinned. He was sprawled upside down on Stan’s couch, his head hanging towards the floor and his glasses sliding off his face.

Some may have interpreted the look Stan gave him as one of disgust. Richie chose to see it as amused and affectionate. “You’re twenty-two years old,” Stan said, and he nudged Richie’s cheek with a bare foot. “When will you stop with the stupid ‘your mom’ jokes?”

Richie wrinkled his nose and batted the foot away. “When will  _ you _ start appreciating my quality humour, is the real question.” 

“I’ll appreciate your humour when your humour is good.”

“Fuck you. I’m hilarious.”

“You’re not. You’re the worst.”

“That’s not what your mom -”

He didn’t get to finish, as Stan threw a pillow at his face, effectively shutting him up. It knocked his glasses off. Stan had impeccable aim with pillows. Probably because he had so many years’ practice throwing them at Richie.

“That should be an Olympic sport,” Richie mumbled as he reached for his glasses. “Pillow throwing. You’d win gold for sure.”

“You know it,” Stan said, nudging Richie again with his foot. “Anyway, d’you wanna spend the night here tonight? We can make popcorn and watch some movies.”

With Stan and Richie, “watching movies” meant Stan would point out every plot hole and character flaw he could find while Richie did voice-overs of the characters with his own improvised script. They couldn’t watch movies with anyone else - they’d had Bev join them once and she’d been ready to murder them before the movie was even halfway through - but when it was just the two of them, it was a riot. They (usually Richie) always ended up spilling something (usually soda) all over the carpet somewhere around the third or fourth movie, which was usually the sign it was time for bed. 

Richie  _ lived _ for movie nights with Stan. They’d been doing them regularly since they’d first met seventeen years ago. College had them both busy - especially Stan, who was an accounting major - so nights both of them had off were hard to come by; they hadn’t had a movie night in weeks. Richie missed it. He wanted to say yes, was about to say yes, when he remembered 307. After nearly three weeks of waiting, he had finally made progress with him. He didn’t want to ruin it by not showing up only a day after they’d finally met.

“Sorry, Stan the Man,” he grinned. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got a date.”

Stan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A  _ date _ ?  _ You? _ ”

“I mean, it’s  _ sort of _ a date,” he admitted. “But quite frankly, I’m  _ offended _ by your tone. Why do you sound so shocked? I can get dates.”

“There is zero evidence to support that.”

“I have a date tonight. That’s evidence.”

“A ‘sort of date’,” Stan corrected. “Who’s it with?”

“A guy from my building. I met him yesterday.”

“What’s his name?”

That… was a good question. “It… well, it…” Richie wracked his brain, but he couldn’t remember having asked 307 his name. Exactly how he had forgotten to ask, he was unsure. That had been one of the biggest questions that had been tormenting him for  _ months _ . “It sure is something,” he finished lamely.

Stan stared at him. “You’ve forgotten his name already.”

“You could say that.”

“ _ You never learned his name in the first place _ ?”

“I never said that!  _ How  _ could you guess that?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Because I know you, dumbass, and I know that guilty look on your face.” Richie quickly tried to wipe his face blank, earning him a hard stare from Stan. “I don’t  _ believe  _ you. You’re blowing me off for a  _ sort of  _ date with some guy whose name you don’t even know.”

Richie grinned. “How d’you expect me to find out his name if I  _ don’t _ blow you off for a sort of date?”

“You’re the worst best friend in the world, you know.”

“I know.”

He held out his empty mug. “Go get me more coffee.”

Richie took it, stuck out his tongue. Stan rolled his eyes, and Richie knew he was forgiven. Stan was never  _ really  _ mad at him. It was part of the reason they’d been friends this long. 

“Wanna watch a movie right now?” Richie asked as he flopped back onto the couch.

“Only if you set it up.”

***

 

That night, it only took Eddie two minutes of deep breathing and mental preparation before he was able to force himself to go outside. 306 was there of course, under the streetlight, waiting. He waved when he saw Eddie. Eddie waved back. His arm didn’t even tremble.

He was struck again by how tall this man was. He must have been at least six feet tall, and Eddie barely brushed his shoulder.

“Hi,” said 306.

“Hi,” said Eddie.

There was an uncomfortable moment in which neither seemed to know what to do; then 306 did the same awkward sweeping gesture as the night before and Eddie did the same odd shrug and together they took the same uncertain first step. They walked in the same direction as the previous night, but turned left at the corner instead of right. Neither spoke.

Just like the last time, the discomfort seemed to lift more and more the longer they walked, though the silence never did. Eddie expected this night to be more or less the same as the previous one - spent walking in desultory, comfortable silence - so when 306 spoke, Eddie was so surprised he tripped on his own feet and landed hard on his hands and knees on the sidewalk.

“So I was thinking, and I - Jesus  _ Christ _ , are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t. His left knee was aching and his right hand was stinging and he was sure he’d broken skin and he was sure he needed antiseptic and he hadn’t brought any with him and  _ why hadn’t he brought any with him  _ \- 

There was a hand on his arm, helping pull him clumsily to his feet, and concerned eyes met his own from behind thick glasses. _ He wore glasses _ . Eddie thought it rather odd that he hadn’t noticed before. He supposed he just hadn’t looked him in the eye until now. 

“You’re good?” asked the man. His hand was on Eddie’s back now; his eyes on Eddie’s face as if scanning for any sign of pain.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. He  _ wasn’t _ . He had definitely broken skin and his palm was bleeding -  _ bleeding! _ \- and his hand was covered in dirt and it had probably gotten into his cut and it would almost definitely get infected and shit, it was getting harder to breathe by the moment,  _ shit  _ \- 

“You’re wheezing.”

Eddie tried not to glare.  _ No shit, Sherlock.  _ “Asthma,” he hissed. “And I - it’s just - I’m bleeding. And -” here he had to gasp for breath and he couldn’t finish his sentence. He fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler and took a puff. 

“Does blood make you squeamish?

Eddie shook his head as he put the cover back on his inhaler.. “I just -”  _ wheeze _ “- don’t want it to get -”  _ gasp _ “- infected. I need to -”  _ puff  _ “- clean it.”

“Oh.” He looked up and down the street, then nodded. “Okay. There’s a 24 hour convenience store just down the street. It’s closer than home. We can pick up bandaids and antiseptic there, if you want.”

“I didn’t bring money.”

“I did.” Eddie opened his mouth to protest but the other held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t worry about it. You can just buy me coffee sometime to make up for it.”

Eddie wanted to protest that bandaids and antiseptic cost way more than coffee and that he couldn’t let him pay for it when it was his, Eddie’s, own fault for being so clumsy. But he could swear he could  _ feel _ the dirt and all its germs  _ crawling  _ into his wound and he wanted it cleaned as soon as possible. So he just nodded.

As they walked, he was grateful for the hand that didn’t leave his back. It was warm. It was steadying. It made him feel safe; almost made him forget the dirt in his hand and the creeping fear in his heart.

Almost. 

 

***

 

Richie wasn’t sure exactly why, but he could tell this cut was a big deal to the other. It wasn’t even much of a cut - barely a scrape, really - but there had been real terror in his eyes when he’d looked at Richie, and he was now holding as far out to the side as possible. Maybe he really was squeamish but he was embarrassed to admit it. 

Richie didn’t ask. He simply guided the other man along with a gentle hand on the small of his back and listened to the occasional  _ chhhh _ of his inhaler.

He still didn’t know his name. He figured now was a bad time to ask.

 

At the store, the smaller man moved through the aisles with purpose. Richie trailed along behind him, bemused, as, one-handed, he picked up bottles, examined labels, wrinkled his nose, returned things to shelves. He settled finally on a bottle of peroxide, a tube of Polysporin, a pack of napkins, a box of Hello Kitty Bandaids, and a bottle of water. Richie was certain they made for quite an odd sight: two men - one keeping his right arm as far from his body as possible - buying this strange assortment at three in the morning. But the cashier was unfazed. She had seen far stranger things here in the middle of the night.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom to clean your cut?” Richie asked as he was handed his bag.

The other looked quite horrified. “ _ No _ ,” he spat. “Do you have any idea how many bacteria there are in public washrooms?”

“No.”

“ _ A fucking lot. _ It would defeat the purpose of cleaning it in the first place.”

Richie stared. “Okay. That’s - yeah. Alright.” He shook his head. “So where do you  _ want  _ to go clean it?  _ Outside _ ?”

 

As it so happened, that was  _ precisely _ where he wanted to go clean it. He promptly sat on the curb, dropped the plastic bag beside him, and took out the hand sanitizer. He was careful not to use his right hand, still holding it to the side as if to keep it as far from potential contaminants as he could. Of course, this made it quite difficult to open the twist cap of the sanitizer. Richie watched him struggle for a moment, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t know your name,” he said conversationally, rocking back on his heels. 

“Eddie,” he said without looking up. The bottle was balanced between his knees now, but it was so small it kept slipping. “Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Richie Tozier. Nice to meet you.” He crouched beside the other, who looked almost ready to cry with frustration at the bottle which still wouldn’t open. “Do you need any help, Eddie Kaspbrak?”

He said nothing, but held out the sanitizer. Richie opened it and poured liberal amounts onto his own hand, ignoring the other’s little squawk of protest.

“Give me your hand,” Richie said.

“I can clean it myself.”

“You can’t. Give me your hand.”

He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, but finally thrust his injured hand in Richie’s direction, looking mutinous. “You need to wash the dirt off before you do anything else,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“And make sure you sanitize your hands again after you touch the bag.”

“I will.”

“And don’t forget -”

“I’ve cleaned cuts before, Eds,” Richie said exasperatedly. “I know what I’m doing.”

Eddie flushed and looked away. “Don’t call me Eds,” he mumbled; but he stopped giving directions.

Richie rinsed the cut with water from the water bottle and dabbed the moisture away with a napkin. After sanitizing his hands again (per Eddie’s instruction), he used a fresh napkin to apply peroxide, and yet another for the Polysporin. He stuck a pink, kitty-faced Bandaid over the whole thing, and grinned at his handiwork.

“There,” he said, gently patting the bandaged hand. “Good as new.”

Eddie stared at his hand. Richie had used far too much Polysporin - it was dripping out from the sides of the bandage - and the Band-Aid was crooked and bunched and already peeling off. Eddie looked mildly disgusted, but tried for a smile. “Thank you,” he said.

Richie grinned, too proud of his first aid skills to notice the discomfort in Eddie’s face. “No problem.” He stood, and held a hand to the man on the ground. Eddie took it, pulled himself to his feet.

They stared at each other a moment. Richie swept his arms vaguely. Eddie gave his awkward shrug. They both grinned.

It was comfortable after that. They talked a bit more as they walked, about nothing in particular. Talked about music and movies and the weather. When they finally returned to the apartment building at nearly six in the morning, the sun was beginning to rise and both of them were laughing. Once again, they parted ways in the hallway without a goodbye.

Once again, neither of them minded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was super stuck on this chapter for a long ass time so i'm not sure how good it is??? But i wanted it done and out of the way because i had a Plan for the next one so stay tuned!!  
> Also!!! Thank you so much to you guys who leave comments on every chapter y'all are the true MVP!!!!


	5. Pebbles and Glitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of free time + not much sleep = the longest chapter I've ever written. I think I like it. I might just like that it's done.
> 
> Also - mild updates have been done to chapters one and two! Mostly just word choice and sentence structure (not really worth rereading) but I definitely am more happy with it now. I'll go over three and four soon when they aren't quite so fresh in my mind, but for now it'll have to do.

A candle flame quivered under the weight of a sigh. Shadows danced across a near-blank page. A pen tapped mindlessly against a chin. A young man closed his eyes, ran a hand through curly hair, dropped a pen onto a table.

The final project for Richie’s playwriting class had been assigned a few weeks previously. The students had been given two months to write a sixty to ninety page stage play. There was no prompt, no required topic, no quotes that needed to be integrated. The sole expectation: the play was to be done in a genre they hadn’t yet written for this class.

 _That_ was a problem. Richie had been writing screenplays, scripts and stage plays for as long as he could remember, and he’d never had any difficulty - but he wrote comedy. He always had. He had no _idea_ how to write anything else. He rarely watched anything but comedy either, unless it was some horror movie or romantic drama with Bev that he only paid half attention to, so he didn’t know where even to _begin_. What kind of plot should a non-comedic play have? What kind of dialogue? He had, more or less, no fucking clue.

He’d started and scrapped about a million ideas thus far, each with a different genre. He’d tried horror. He’d tried mystery. He’d tried tragedy. He’d even tried romance, his least favourite genre by far. But nothing seemed to stick. He could never get more than ten lines in before he decided he sounded like an absolute twat, and he had no idea what should happen next, and this was a stupid genre anyway, and he may as well just start over. The waste basket beside his desk, normally nearly empty, was overflowing with torn and crumpled notebook papers. His pens were all almost out of ink, but he’d yet to make any headway. With the deadline drawing nearer and the blank page of death glaring menacingly every time he opened his notebook, Richie was starting to get a little worried. Of course, this only made his brain even more void of ideas. Fucking writer’s block.

Another sigh evoked more shadows. The flame trembled, flickered, died. Richie closed his notebook.

It was almost time to meet Eddie anyway.

  


They hadn’t discussed a set time to meet. In fact, their late-night encounters themselves weren’t strictly decided upon. Over the last couple of weeks it had simply become routine, an unspoken agreement. Richie would leave his apartment between one and four in the morning and wait under the lamp. Eddie would meet him before ten minutes had passed and together they would walk. If Richie hadn’t left by four, Eddie knew not to expect him. If Eddie took longer than ten minutes to come down, Richie knew not to wait up. They never knocked on one another’s door to ask if they were on for tonight. They never wondered aloud where they should go, or what time they would be home. They didn’t talk about these things. They simply understood. .

 

***

 

Door opening, door closing. Keys jingling, lock clicking. Footsteps.

Eddie’s heart did the excited little flip he’d come to associate with Richie. He wasn’t sure why he liked him so much - Richie talked too much and his jokes weren’t funny and he was, quite frankly, annoying. But he was _nice_. Being around him was nice. He was like cold hands wrapped around a warm mug; like bike rides with Bill in the summertime; like raindrops sliding down a foggy window. He was warm. Familiar. Eddie felt like he’d known him for years rather than weeks. It was strange. It was nice.

He was nice.

Eddie waited the three minutes and twenty eight seconds until he saw Richie standing under the streetlamp, then pulled on his coat and went out to meet him. He tried, as he descended the stairs, to school his face into a more neutral expression.

He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

 

***

 

He always looked so unsure. Every time Eddie walked out the battered French doors of the ancient apartment building, his feet were shuffling and his gaze was averted and his hands were wringing and he looked _so damn unsure_ . He looked like he couldn’t decide whether or not he actually wanted to be there, but like he was leaning more toward _not_. It made Richie self conscious.

But every time Richie waved, Eddie waved back. And every time Richie swept his arms vaguely, Eddie did his maladroit shrug-nod. And every time they started walking, Eddie smiled a soft kind of smile that made all of Richie’s worries disappear.

Tonight was no different.

 

“I saw a dog today,” said Richie as they reached the end of the street and turned right. “It reminded me of you.”

Eddie frowned. He was bundled in a sweater underneath his jacket, and he had a scarf wrapped around his face. Richie didn’t blame him. The weather had gotten rather colder in the last few weeks, as November drew to a close. Winter was imminent, though they had yet to see any snow. “How?” Eddie asked.

“It was wheezing.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as Richie laughed, the sound echoing in the empty street. Ever since he’d found out about it, Richie hadn’t stopped teasing Eddie about his asthma (though he _had_ taken to asking if he had his inhaler every time he saw him - just to be safe).

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Eddie asked. He had a brilliant voice. It was always so soft, like everything he said was a secret meant for Richie’s ears alone. It made Richie feel like he was the only one who got to hear it; like they were the only ones who existed. He adored it.

Richie grinned. “Course not. Then what would I tease you about?”

“It’s a _medical condition_.”

“It’s prime joke material.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Smiling that gentle little smile of his; the one that sent warmth through Richie’s entire body despite the chill of the air around them. Richie couldn’t help but smile back.

***

 

It was mystifying how easy it was to talk to Richie. Eddie had never been very good with other people - anxiety on top of years of being babied by his mother and bullied by just about everyone he’d ever met had sort of demolished his social skills. There was really only one person Eddie had ever felt fully comfortable with, and that was Bill.

But with Richie it was different. He wasn’t like Bill - someone who knew all there was to know about Eddie; who Eddie knew and trusted; who would never judge him or laugh at him for anything. Richie was completely dissimilar. He knew nothing about Eddie, and Eddie knew nothing about him. Yet talking to him came as easy as breathing.

Maybe it was _because_ they knew nothing about each other that Eddie felt he could tell Richie anything. They were strangers, after all, strangers who only met in the dead of the night. Whatever they said wouldn’t matter when the sun came up. Maybe it was because Richie did most of the talking anyway, and all Eddie had to do was fill the occasional lull. Maybe it was the silence that surrounded them like a blanket; isolated them from the rest of the world. There was a magic in the night. It brought to them a sense of unrealness, of solitude. They were the only ones awake. They were the only ones in the _world_. Why shouldn’t they say whatever they wanted?

Maybe it was just the way Richie smiled so often. Maybe it just made Eddie feel at ease.

He was smiling now. “How old are you?” Richie asked, out of nowhere. They’d been walking for about fifteen minutes, and had just been discussing the merits of dogs vs cats (Richie liked dogs better; Eddie disliked both), so the question took Eddie a bit by surprise.

“Twenty-two,” he said.

Richie nodded. “Me too.”

“You seem older.” Not that he was mature, or anything. Eddie thought he sort of acted like a twelve year old. But there was something about him - he gave off a vibe of _age_ , like he’d simply seen more years than Eddie. Maybe it was just because he was so tall. “Are you a student?”

He nodded again. “I’m a drama kid.”

The Fine Arts faculty was on the opposite side of campus from Eddie’s, which explained why he had never seen Richie around the university. His mother had often said that art degrees weren’t real degrees, and that art students were wasting their education. He thought it best not to mention this to Richie.

Richie was still talking. Richie was always talking. “I think I want to be a director. Or maybe a comedian.”

“Don’t you have to be funny to be a comedian?” Eddie said without thinking, and immediately wanted to kick himself. Sure, that was something he might have said to Bill without a second thought - but they were best friends. Bill knew he never meant anything by his sass and quips. He didn’t know Richie that well - were they on friendly insults basis?

Apparently they were. The other was doubled over laughing. “Oh my God,” he gasped. “Little Eddie Spaghetti, insulting me? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I do it all the time in my head,” he said dryly, which only made Richie laugh harder. _What a weirdo_. “And don’t call me Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Right, right. My sincerest apologies, Sir Edward Spaghedward." He said it in a posh British accent, tipping an imaginary hat. Eddie rolled his eyes, and Richie grinned. “So what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’re you studying?” he asked. “I mean, I assume you’re in university. You’ve got that empty, deadened look in your eye.”

“Common university students and insomniacs alike,” said Eddie. Richie snorted. “But you’re right. I’m a business major.”

“You don’t like it, do you?”

Eddie blinked, surprised. The other man was watching him carefully, as if he was looking for something in Eddie’s face. His eyes were vivid behind his glasses; it felt like he was staring right through him, into his head. It was surreal. He had the uncanny feeling that Richie would be able to tell if he lied.

He just shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not the worst.”

“But it wasn’t your first choice.” His gaze was unwavering. Eddie had to look away.

Again, he shrugged, uncomfortable now. “It… was my mom’s choice. I think she wants me to be a finance manager or something. She says it’s practical, and safe. I guess she’s right,” he added, an afterthought.

Eddie got about five steps further before he noticed Richie was no longer beside him. He paused, turned. The other had stopped under a streetlamp, its glow irradiating him like a spotlight. Eddie could sense more than see his stare: the light from the lamp was reflecting off Richie’s glasses, hiding his eyes behind a veneer of illumination.

“What?” Eddie asked when Richie didn’t speak.

Richie shrugged, flashed a grin. The light shifted as he tossed his head and his glasses cleared. The strange intensity was gone from his eyes; he looked as carefree as ever. “Nothing. Let’s go this way - I think I saw a cat go down there and I wanna pet it.”

“You shouldn’t pet feral cats,” Eddie said, already walking back to meet him. “You’ll get bartonellosis, and that can cause encephalopathy.”

“Now you’re just making up words.”

 

***

 

It was empty here. Most streets were empty, this time of night, but this one was especially so. Apartment buildings towered on either side, casting them into shadow, but not a single window boasted any light. Not even the wind heaved its breath upon them. It was like nobody was anywhere nearby, asleep or otherwise. Truly, it was a street of ghosts.

It should have been creepy. Instead, Richie just found it peaceful. They really _were_ the only two alive, these two young men who knew nothing about each other. Who knew nothing about anything. It felt… magical. It felt like being high - like everything was just that much more beautiful, and like nothing could be wrong.

He stepped on a frozen puddle, just to hear the ice shatter like glass. In the silence, it was as loud as an atom bomb. He stepped on another. Beside him, Eddie let out an exhale that might have been a silent laugh.

A gloss of frost covered the asphalt. It shimmered in the yellow light from the streetlamps, sparkled as though coated in pixie dust. It was pretty. Richie wanted to walk on it, to see if it looked different from that angle. So, with a cursory glance around to make sure there were no cars in sight, he did.

“What are you doing?” Eddie hissed as Richie reached the middle of the road.

“Walking,” he said simply. He turned to face Eddie, walking backwards along the dotted yellow line. “Come on.”

“ _What_?”

He extended a hand towards the other. “Come walk with me.”

Eddie shook his head so fast Richie thought he must be dizzy. He was evidently horrorstruck, more so than Richie thought was strictly necessary given the situation. He even took a step back as if to skirt Richie’s reach, despite already being at least ten feet away. “No,” said Eddie firmly. “No way. You’re going to get hit by a car.”

Richie made a production of looking around. The street was a graveyard, completely devoid of life and movement. “I don’t see any cars,” he stated. He wiggled his fingers in what he hoped was a tantalizing way. “Come on, Eds. Live a little!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he yelped. “You, on the other hand, are going to _fucking die_.”

Richie arched an eyebrow, didn’t reply. Instead, he started back toward the sidewalk. Eddie visibly relaxed.

“Okay. Good. You’re - wait - _what the fuck are you doing_ ?” Richie had taken both of Eddie’s hands in his and was tugging him benignly into the street. The shorter of the two planted his feet on the curb, shaking his head vehemently. “No. _No_ ! I am _not_ walking in the middle of the road in the _dark_ , no one can see us, you’re going to get us _killed_ .” His voice was rising in pitch and in volume as Richie gently coaxed him step by step off the sidewalk. “Richie Tozier, I swear to _God_ -”

“We’ll be fine,” said Richie consolingly. “Don’t you trust me?”

“ _No I fucking don’t_.”

Richie laughed. “C’mon, Eds. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Quit worrying for two seconds.”

Eddie fixed him with a hard stare, which Richie met with equal stubbornness and considerably more amusement. Finally, Eddie sighed.

“If I get hit by a car,” he said, letting a delighted Richie pull him to the middle of the street. “I _will_ murder you. That’s a promise.”

Richie just laughed. “I know you will.”

 

***

 

He didn’t get hit by a car. In fact, he didn’t even _hear_ any cars as the two of them walked down the road. Richie kept shooting him _I told you so_ glances, as if he expected Eddie to tell him he had been right. Eddie would _never_ do such a thing. He stared pointedly straight ahead, and fought not to smile at disappointed slump of Richie’s shoulders.

It was sort of nice, walking here. Eddie felt _cool_ . Rebellious. It was stupid, he knew, but for Eddie - who had never broken a rule in his life - this felt like an act of defiance. Against whom, he wasn’t sure. But _damn_ did it feel good.

“So what do you _really_ want to do after college?” Richie asked suddenly. He had his arms stuck out to the sides for balance as he tried to walk directly on the yellow lines. He was ridiculously unstable. Eddie wanted to try too, if only to prove he was better at it than Richie, but he had too much pride for that.

 _Not this again_. “I told you. I’m going to be a finance manager.”

“Your _mom_ wants you to be a finance manager,” he corrected him. “I’m asking what _you_ want to do.”

He shifted uncomfortably, kicked a pebble, watched it skitter away into the darkness. “I don’t know,” he mumbled finally. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

Richie looked incredulous. “So you’re just going to study what your mom tells you to study, get the job your mom wants you to get, and not question any of it?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you _live_ with your mom?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. Richie put up his hands.

“Just asking. You don’t need to bite my head off.”

There was a silent beat. They caught up to the pebble Eddie had kicked, and Richie kicked it further.

“You really don’t see anything wrong with that, though?” He said it quickly, as though it burst from him against his will. “Living the life your mom wants you to live?”

Eddie sighed. “It’s not like that. It’s - you don’t - it’s complicated.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

“Just drop it, okay?” How was he supposed to explain that he had always done exactly as his mother said, and that was part of his _identity_ at this point. How could he just tell Richie how his mother was the only one who had shown him any kind of affection for the first five years of his life, or how she’d always done her best to protect him, or how it had always been just the two of them so he could understand why she wanted to keep him close? How could he say that it had taken thirteen years for him to even begin to question the relationship he had with her, and even longer to realize how unhealthy it was? How was he to voice his mixed feelings of guilt and relief over leaving his mother; his continuous desire to please her, to make her proud, despite everything; his unending fear that maybe he really _did_ need her, and maybe he would have been better off staying with her after all, and maybe this had all been a mistake and he needed to go back home.

How could he explain all that to someone else when he himself didn’t quite understand it?

He couldn’t.

Like he said, it was complicated.

“But -”

“Beep beep, Richie.” He said it with more force than he intended, but it did its job.

Richie had told him, one of the first nights they’d talked, about the “safeword” between he and his friends. “I don’t have much of a filter,” he’d explained, “and I sometimes take jokes too far.” If he ever crossed a line or was being a little too much, his friends just had to say “beep beep” and he was honor bound to shut his mouth. Eddie had never “beep beep”ed him before - had never felt the need - so he wasn’t sure Richie would actually comply.

He did. Though not without the briefest flicker of hurt crossing his face. Silence resounded once again upon the lonely street. Deafening.

 

***

The poor pebble found itself once again in the path of tired feet. A beat-up black sneaker kicked it first, sent it ricocheting directly into the toe of a pristine red tennis shoe. This foot showed no more mercy than the first, and punted it a few meters forward. The black shoe caught it next, and then the red shot it across a frozen puddle. Moments later, the black freed the pebble from a crack in the road, only to propel it almost directly along a painted yellow line. The owner of the red shoe commented on what a straight shot it was, tried to imitate it, sent the pebble sliding almost perpendicular to the line. The owner of the black shoe laughed and nudged the pebble back to the red, told him to try again.

This went on a while, each kick sending the poor pebble further down the frosty road. It had somehow become a competition, though nobody was quite sure exactly what they were competing over. Not even the owner of the red shoe, who was insisting the black shoe was a damn cheater; or the black shoe, who swore he was simply better at this.

The poor pebble would probably not have minded its situation, had it been sentient enough to mind any situation at all. For though it was being hurled meters at a time down cold, hard pavement by uncaring shoes, it would have known - had it been sentient enough to know anything at all - that it was a noble sacrifice. Because these uncaring shoes were on uncaring feet, and these uncaring feet belonged to young men who were really very caring indeed. And the pebble would have understood - had it been sentient enough to understand anything at all - that the simple fact of it sliding and skipping back and forth in the dark was enough to diffuse any tension between these two young men.

Even as it was sent flying down a sewage drain, it would not have minded. The laughter that echoed would have made it worth it.

The two young men didn’t mind either - though they bickered about whose fault it was until they parted ways.

 

***

 

(It was Eddie's fault.)

 

***

 

(No it wasn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Richie's fault. He's a damn liar.


	6. Flurry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!!!!! I spent all of New Year's Eve just fuckin writing it was fantastic  
> Fun fact about this chapter: I realized while reading it over that it reminds me a lot of the song Flurry by Social Code (hence the chapter title), which is one of my favourite songs ever??? And it wasn't even intentional??? I guess I'm just always thinking about it lmao here's a link if you wanna check it out!!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fn4rpH-5yx8 (skip to 23:11)

The first snow had fallen earlier that day, cold and wet and bright. There wasn’t much - barely two centimeters, just enough to coat the Earth in the faintest dusting of white and remind Richie of the mini powdered donuts Bev loved to eat when she was high. It was the kind of snow that grass peeked out of. The kind that stuck to car tires and the bottoms of shoes and soaked into socks and hearts.

Richie had taken to walking in the grass rather than on the sidewalk, despite the snow there soaking right through his socks, for no other reason than to see the footprints he would make. His feet were frozen. Canvas sneakers weren’t the warmest of shoes, after all; nor were they the most waterproof. He didn’t mind.

Eddie was on the sidewalk, rolling his eyes periodically when Richie would shiver or blow into his bare hands.

“Don’t you own  _ any _ warm clothes?” he sighed when, for the millionth time, Richie rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a hoodie. Eddie, on the other hand, looked ready for a month-long expedition in Antarctica - bright blue and pink ski jacket, woolen hat tugged low over his ears, and a scarf pulled almost up to his eyes. “ _ I’m _ cold just looking at you.”

“How can  _ you  _ possibly be cold?” Richie eyed him skeptically. “You look like a walking skiwear ad. It’s not even officially winter yet.”

“It sure  _ feels  _ like winter,” Eddie grumbled.

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re not from the South?”

Eddie rolled his eyes (he seemed to do that a lot around Richie, which Richie found completely hilarious). Richie had assumed, based on Eddie’s tolerance for cold weather (or lack thereof), that he must have been from Florida or Arizona or someplace warm like that, so he had been surprised to learn that he, too, was from Maine - and from a town not far from here, no less. In fact, they had both visited each other’s hometowns on numerous occasions. Richie had family in Eddie’s home of Derry, and his own city was a common stop both for tourists and for what his father like to call “small towners”.

“I’m anemic,” Eddie said. “I get cold really easily.”

“Anemic, asthmatic - you’re just an alliteration of illnesses, aren’t you?” Richie tucked his hands in his pockets, grinned. “What’s next - arthritis? Achalasia? AIDS?”

“Allergies,” said Eddie dryly.

Richie snapped his fingers. “Allergies! Of course! How could I have missed that? But I gotta admit, AIDS would have been much more interesting.”

“And more life-threatening,” Eddie huffed. “What about you? Don’t you have anything wrong with you?”

“Listen pal,” he said, in his very best mobster voice. “I got a lotta things wrong with me.” He didn’t miss the way the corner of Eddie’s mouth twitched upwards, and he grinned. It was always gratifying to have people appreciate his dumb impressions. “But if you mean medically, then I’m afraid I’m a paradigm of health.”

“Other than the insomnia,” Eddie pointed out.

Richie tried not to wince. He still hated calling it insomnia; still hated to think there was something actually wrong with him. But somehow, when Eddie said it, it didn’t seem quite as bad. It didn’t seem like a diagnosis - it just felt like a title. Like how he, Bev and Stan had labeled themselves the Losers Club in high school. It took the power away from the word, made it feel like it was his  _ own  _ choice to be a loser, or a dork… or an insomniac. 

Yeah.

Fuck it. He was an insomniac.

“Other than the insomnia,” Richie agreed.

 

***

 

There was something  _ wrong  _ about playgrounds at night. Eddie had always thought so. They seemed like they shouldn’t exist at the same time as a starry sky; like they should simply disappear with the sun when it set. They served no purpose in the dark, with no children to play upon their surfaces. Walking past them always gave him chills. Unconsciously, he shifted microscopically closer to Richie.

Richie didn’t notice. “I’ll race you to the swings.”

“What? No.” Eddie knew he would lose. “It’s dark, and slippery, and not at all safe.”  _ And  _ he knew he would lose. 

“Ready-set-go!” He took off at a dead sprint before the words had even left his mouth.

“Wha - you cheating  _ fucker _ !” Eddie screeched, scrabbling to catch up. His feet slid on the thin sheet of snow and his arms windmilled wildly to keep him upright. “Head starts don’t count! I win by default!”

“You fucking wish!”

By the time Eddie reached the swings, trying hard to look less out of breath than he felt, Richie was already sitting on one with his legs stretched in front of him and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I win,” he said smugly.

Eddie just glared. “Yeah, because you cheated.”

“Race me again then,” he challenged. “No head starts. I’ll still beat you.”

“Of course you will, you’re all leg!” Eddie protested. “One of your steps is, like,  _ four _ of mine. You have an unfair advantage.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he sighed. “It’s not my fault I’m so tall, dark and handsome.”

Eddie kicked his shin lightly. “No one said anything about ‘handsome’.”

He clutched his chest theatrically. “You wound me, Spaghetti. No, you really do. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.” 

“Don’t call me that, or I really  _ will _ wound you.”

“You’d have to catch me first.” He sprung up from the swing and punched Eddie on the arm. “Tag!” 

“Ow!” Eddie yelped, and leaped after him. “Get back here, asshole!”

Richie sprinted away at a speed Eddie could never have matched ( _ damn _ him and his absurdly long legs) but Eddie managed to tag him when he slipped trying to round the monkey bars. Then Eddie got cornered by the jungle gym and it was his turn to flee; moments later Richie’s side-step evasion manoeuvre failed miserably near the slide and the roles reversed. They were both laughing like children as they chased each other around, shouting insults and challenges that echoed like fireworks.

Neither felt very cold anymore.

 

Time seemed to disappear, as did all of his worries. Eddie was reminded of summers of his childhood, of the days his mother would let him go out and play with Bill and Ben and Mike. He was reminded of hide and seek in the forest and swimming in the quarry and make believe in the Barrens. He was reminded of long nights in Bill’s basement, watching movies and talking about a future they could hardly imagine. He was reminded of soaring smiles and whooping laughs and carefree hearts like hadn’t known in years. 

He knew those things now, as he flung himself down the slide to avoid being tagged; as he heard Richie come barrelling down behind him. He knew soaring smiles, as knees collided hard with his back at the bottom of the slide and both men - both  _ boys _ \- were sent flying off the edge of the plastic mouth. He knew whooping laughs, as they landed in a sprawling heap on the snowy sand, a gallimaufry of arms and legs and souls. He knew carefree hearts, as a breathless voice whispered in his ear:

“You’re it.”

 

***

 

Though the cold and the damp were rapidly seeping into both of their bodies, neither really felt like getting up. Richie rolled off of Eddie and onto his back on the ground. His heart was kicking up a storm in his chest and icy air burned his straining lungs. Eddie was panting just as hard beside him. Richie wondered idly if he needed his inhaler. 

It was a clearer night than they had had in awhile. Their job done, the snow clouds that had been hovering for days had finally fled. Now it seemed that every single star was visible, a billion twinkling lights on a page of jet blank ink.

Eddie was whispering beside him, a slow, rhythmic string of words too soft for Richie to understand. He held his breath the better to hear, but to no avail.

“What are you saying?” he whispered after a moment of fruitless listening.

Eddie jumped, startled, and turned his head to look at Richie. “I was counting,” was his hushed reply. “The stars.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” He turned his gaze back to the sky, back to the flickering of a thousand fairies. “How many had you counted?”

“Forty-three.”

“How many do you think there are?” Richie couldn’t say why they were both still whispering, especially when they had been shouting not two minutes ago. It just felt like the thing to do, in this gentle moment, to speak in undertones. It felt like they were sharing secrets, though there was nobody around to overhear. Even the moon, a silver sliver in a mass of ebony, seemed to have turned her back on them.

Eddie seemed to consider for a moment, scanning the sky as if trying to memorize it, and Richie could swear he could see the lights of the stars so far above reflecting in his eyes. But maybe that was just his imagination.

When at last Eddie spoke, his voice different somehow, filled with a kind of quiet wonder Richie could not quite describe. A kind of quiet wonder that inexplicably made Richie’s heart do somersaults. He sounded so enamored, as if there was nothing in the world more ethereal than the stars upon which he gazed. Maybe there wasn’t.

“Infinity,” he said. “Or maybe more.”

 

***

 

He was right, of course. There were more stars in the sky than beats of Richie’s heart; than breaths in Eddie’s lungs. There were more stars in the sky than smiles in all the world; than a million blinks of a billion eyes; than snowflakes in a thousand years. There were more than could ever be counted. More even than could be imagined.

Eddie started counting again.

Richie cast his eyes upon infinity.

They were infinitesimal.

 

***

 

How long they lied there, Richie wasn’t sure. It felt at once like a millisecond and like a millenium. Time was a foreign concept. A minute. An hour. A century. They were all the same. He thought he might have even fallen asleep at one point, but he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t until he felt Eddie start to shiver beside him that he felt reality once more.

“You cold?” he asked. His voice was like sand.

“Yeah.” So was Eddie’s. “You?”

“Nah.” Even as he said it, he felt the chill seep in. The back of his hoodie was soaked through, and his jeans felt like they’d been dunked in a lake. His entire body was made of ice. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. Suddenly, he had a thought. “Hey, if we’re where I think we are, there’s a 24 hour café just down the street. We could warm up there, and grab some breakfast.”

Eddie shot him a look akin to disgust. “The sun isn’t even up, Richie. You can’t call it breakfast.”

“Pre-breakfast then,” he laughed, pushing himself to his feet. His heart felt strangely light in his chest as he held out a hand to help Eddie up. “C’mon.”

Eddie stared for a moment. “Fine,” he said finally. “But I’m buying. I still owe you for the first aid stuff, remember?”

Eddie took his hand and pulled himself to his feet, and though all of their fingers were icicles, the warmth that spread through Richie’s body was like that of a thousand suns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know this is a short chapter and ORIGINALLY the café scene was going to be in this one too (everything you just read - not part of my initial story plan. Such is life) but with the playground scene it ended up being a suuuuuper long chapter (almost 5000 words and it's not even done yet) so I decided to separate it. On the bright side, chapter seven won't be much of a wait.


	7. Here Comes The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought. Mostly because I got stuck on onE GOD DAMN TRANSITION SENTENCE FOR TWO GOD DAMN DAYS  
> I'm mad about it. But it's done now. Yeehaw.

The café was most definitely _not_ “just down the street”. It had been nearly twenty minutes and they were still walking. Eddie was freezing. Now that he was no longer running around like a little kid, he could feel the cold of the night seeping into his body like ink into paper. Deep and permanent.

Despite Richie’s vociferous protests, Eddie had given him his jacket and made him take off his sopping sweater.

“You’ll be cold,” Richie had argued, trying to push the jacket back into Eddie’s arms.

Eddie was having none of it. “You’ll be colder in that wet hoodie, dipshit. Just take it. _Take it_. I’ve got another sweater underneath, see?”

Richie had finally caved when it had become clear that Eddie would not be moved, though not without a fair amount of grumbling. He looked ridiculous in the jacket. It was much too small for him, the hem barely reaching his belly button and the sleeves leaving bare a good portion of his arms, but - as Eddie continued to insist - it was better than the frost-coated hoodie he now carried.

They walked side by side, so close their arms kept brushing against each other. Despite their proximity, they were both shivering. Neither had much body heat to share.

“If I get pneumonia,” Eddie said to Richie through chattering teeth. “I’m suing you.”

Richie gave a weak laugh. “Understood.”

 

An eternity (it was only five minutes) passed in silence, for both were too cold to even think of of anything to say. Finally, just as Eddie was beginning to regret all of his life’s choices, Richie let out an excited breath.

“There it is!”

Eddie stared. He wouldn’t have given the café a second glance had Richie not pointed it out. It looked _ancient_. Crumbling bricks, battered wooden door, rusted sign. Huge lattice windows riddled with cracks spreading through them like spiderwebs took up most of the building’s facade. A blue tarp covered much of one half of the glass - it must have been broken. Tarnished gold lettering above the door spelled out simply “Al’s”, though the “S” seemed to have come unfixed and was dangling weakly upside down.

Richie grinned proudly, as though Eddie should have been impressed, and Eddie didn’t have the heart not to grin back, albeit a little strained. He tried to ignore the resounding creak of the door as Richie pulled it open and lead him inside.

Both exhaled the tension from their bodies as the door squeaked shut behind them. They felt warmer already, even with the draughts coming from the windows, and the door, and - unnervingly - the ceiling. Eddie couldn’t shake the feeling the entire building was a gust of wind away from collapsing on their heads. He shuddered and looked around.

It wasn’t much. There were four rickety old tables, two of which only big enough to seat two people. The walls were painted a dull, peeling yellow, and the checkerboard floor was in need of mopping. The dim lights flickered so much Eddie worried they might burn out at any minute. He glanced at Richie. The other was smiling fondly around the place as if it were a childhood home.

A remarkably old man was hunched behind the counter, peering at a newspaper from behind thick oval glasses. He looked at least as old as the building itself. Probably older. But aside from him, Eddie, and Richie, the café was deserted. It wasn’t surprising. Eddie doubted any place got much business at (he glanced at his watch) four thirty in the morning, much less decrepit cafés.

They approached the counter and Richie ordered for both of them (“No, trust me Eds, you’ll love it.”) and refused to give Eddie his wallet from the pocket of his coat.

“You let me wear you jacket,” he laughed, trying to simultaneously push Eddie back and hand his own money to the nonplussed man behind the register. “We’re even.”

“We’re not!” Eddie argued. “That’s twice now that you’ve bought things for me.”

“You can pay next time,” said Richie as he took the change that was being handed to him by a shaky, age-spotted hand.

Eddie just glared, punched him hard on the shoulder as he turned to find a table. They settled on one of the two person tables just beside the cracked, uncovered window. The chairs groaned ominously as they sat down, and the table wobbled disquietingly when Eddie rested his arms on it. He sat up straight after that.

Richie pulled off the coat, slung it over the chair at the table behind him. It was the first time Eddie had seen him in a t-shirt, and the first time he’d been this close to him indoors. The smell that wafted off of him was something Eddie hadn’t noticed before. “You smell like cigarettes,” he said blandly.

“Do I?” He seemed surprised. He sniffed his own t-shirt, a threadbare yellow garment with some sort of band logo on it, and smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry. I always sort of do - guess I’m so used to it I don’t notice it anymore.”

Eddie blinked, startled. “You smoke?” He’d never seen him with a cigarette before. Not even an unlit one.

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh, but not around you,” he added quickly. “I’d never smoke around you. Asthma and shit.”

“Oh.” That was… really considerate. Eddie had never seen Richie as the thoughtful type. He was loud and he was sort of obnoxious and he made fun of Eddie _all the time_. But then again, he also made a point of asking Eddie if he had his inhaler almost every night. And when Eddie had hurt his hand, Richie had been so quick to help him - had even bandaged him up.

Eddie’s heart felt funny thinking about it. He didn’t know what to say. He settled for an unimpressive “Thanks.”

Richie just shrugged like it was no big deal and looked down at his hands, but he was smiling as if Eddie’s thanks meant the world to him.

  


Richie fidgeted a lot, Eddie noticed as they waited for their food. Bounced his knee, flipped the coffee creamers (they had a small competition over that, which Richie won. The bastard), drummed his fingers on the table. At first Eddie thought he must be anxious - those were all some of Eddie’s own nervous tics - but then he noticed the lazy half smile and the relaxed slouch of shoulders. Eddie remembered him trailing his hands over chain link fences, and hopping off curbs, and skipping squares in the sidewalk, and tapping his hand against his thigh as he walked, and it made sense.

“You’re not very good at sitting still,” Eddie noted.

The knee bouncing - which had been making the entire table shake as if in an earthquake - stopped abruptly. “Nope,” he said, unabashed. “It drives Stan crazy.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

Richie raised an eyebrow. “Good to know.” And he promptly started jiggling both legs even harder than before and smacking his palms against the table as if it were a set of bongos. The table creaked mournfully under the pressure.

“Okay!” Eddie yelped, lunging across the table for Richie’s hands; he moved them just out of reach, so Eddie kicked him in the shin. “Stop it! You’ll break it!”

Richie stuck out his tongue and kicked Eddie back. His hands were still going. Eddie kicked out at him again but Richie had the reflexes of a god damn cat. He trapped Eddie’s foot between his shins and pulled backwards, making the other slide down in his seat. Eddie tried to kick with his free leg, but the angle was all wrong and he just ended up putting his foot more or less in Richie’s lap.

Richie grinned. “Getting frisky now, are we?”

“Shut up.” He tried to pull away; lightning fast hands caught him around the ankle. “Give me my foot.”

“No.”

“ _Richie_.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

“I did _not_.” He squirmed, but Richie was strong. “Let me go, Trashmouth.”

“Not until you ask nicely.”

“ _Please_ let me go, you fucking Trashmouth.”

“Now, that wasn’t nice at _all_.”

They bickered back and forth awhile, Eddie’s foot in Richie’s lap and Richie toying absently with his shoelaces, but stopped when they noticed the old man shuffling up to their table, carrying a tray that shook worryingly in his wrinkled hands. Richie let Eddie’s foot go. Eddie sat up straighter in his chair. Miraculously, the old man didn’t spill a drop as he placed two chipped mugs in the center of the table. They thanked him. He didn’t seem to notice, and shuffled back to the counter without a word to either of them.

Richie pulled one of the mugs toward himself. He had ordered them both spiced hot chocolate, and both mugs were piled high with whipped cream. He made a face.

“I hate whipped cream,” he said. “I always forget to order it without. D’you want mine?”

Eddie shrugged and pushed his mug towards Richie. “Yeah, sure. Just scoop it onto mine.”

Richie used one of the flimsy plastic stir sticks from a little paper cup on the table, and managed to spill whipped cream and hot chocolate all over the sides of both mugs, the table face, and himself. As he reached for a napkin, his bare arm passed right in front of Eddie, who let out an involuntary gasp. There, just below the crook of his elbow, was a garish burn scar the exact shape and size of a cigarette head. It looked old, but it looked _bad_ \- a deep welt surrounded by raised, shiny, pink skin.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eddie whispered

Richie looked at him, puzzled, then at his own arm. His expression changed from confusion to grim amusement. “Oh,” he grinned. “That. That’s a million years old. Some asshole in the tenth grade thought it would be funny to extinguish his cigarette on my arm. It’s no big deal. Shit like that used to happen to me all the time.” Eddie’s face must have betrayed his abject horror, because Richie rushed to explain. “Not - not cigarette burns, of course, that was a one time thing. But this one kid, Henry Bowers, _did_ slam a locker door on my head junior year for insinuating he had a small penis. Broke my nose _and_ my glasses.” He sounded almost proud of this fact. “I still have the scar, look.”

He leaned across the table a little too enthusiastically; Eddie had to slide his mug away from Richie’s elbow to prevent an epic spill of spiced hot chocolate. Richie was practically laying on the table, so close that Eddie could see faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. He’d never noticed them before. Richie pushed his glasses impatiently up into his hair, making it stick up at every angle like some ridiculous headband. His eyes looked smaller without them. Brighter, too.

His nose _was_ a little crooked, Eddie noticed. Now that he knew about it, he thought it was clear that it had been broken before. And his eyebrows were pretty thick. Not in a bad way. Just - noticeably. It was nice, sort of. It suited him.

And that was irrelevant. Eddie shook himself and turned his eyes to the scar Richie was pointing at.

It _was_ rather impressive - a thin white line cutting straight through his eyebrow and barely missing his eyelid. It was vibrant despite its years, so much so that it looked almost new. Eddie’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. It must have been a deep cut, for it to have scarred this badly. He figured Richie was lucky not to have lost his eye.

 _Eddie_ was lucky, he realised with a jolt. Lucky that _his_ school bullies had never been quite that brutal - not to him, anyway. He _had_ gotten regular hijacked lockers and toilet dunkings and beatdowns behind the bleachers and just about every other cliché he had never thought happened in real life until they had happened to him. But nothing had left scars. Not physical ones, anyway.

“You were a punching bag too, weren’t you?”

Eddie jumped. Richie was watching him with the same scrutinizing eyes he had had the other night when they’d talked about Eddie’s mother. His gaze was even more intense without his glasses in the way. “I - how did you know?”

He smiled almost sadly as he sat back in his chair, letting his glasses fall back onto his nose. “Your eyes. They’ve got that ‘remembering traumatic events’ look right now.” Eddie had no idea what look he meant, but he didn’t doubt that he had it. “It’s funny,” Richie went on. “I would have pegged you for a prep.”

“A _prep_?”

“Yeah - you know, those smart rich kids who wear button-up shirts and go to fucking Harvard and shit.” He put on a haughty, nasally voice. “By golly, would you look at the time? I’ll be late to polo! Alfred, please bring the car around. And _do_ fetch my good hat. You know the one.”

Eddie laughed. “Seriously? Why would you think that?”

He laughed too. “I dunno - you’re all sweet and rule-abiding. And your hair is always combed.” He reached out to tug on Eddie’s hair; Eddie brushed his hand away with a snort.

“Yeah, well I’m pretty sure that’s exactly _why_ I was such a loser.” He sipped his drink for the first time. Richie had been right - it was fantastic. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah! I always thought you must have been one of the cool kids in high school. I mean, you always dress cool, and you’re tall and funny and -” he stopped himself, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

Richie waggled his eyebrows. “Handsome?”

Eddie scoffed as if that was the furthest thing from his mind, but his face was burning. “I was _going_ to say confident,” he lied. In all honesty, Richie was _gorgeous_. Sure, his nose was a little crooked and his front teeth were pretty big and his hair was always a mess and he was almost weirdly lanky - but it worked on him. All of it worked on him. Even his giant glasses and stupid eyebrows.

Eddie would never tell him that, though.

Richie grinned. “Well sorry to disappoint, but I was just about the furthest thing from cool. You’re looking at the one and only ‘Four Eyes’ ‘Bucky Beaver’ Tozier, card carrying member of the Losers Club.”

Eddie laughed. “Is that what they called you? I was always just Wheezy and -” he broke off, remembering the insults thrown at him in hallways, in locker rooms, when he was walking down the street. _Faggot. Homo. Girly boy. Twink._ He remembered the terror and shame and disgust he’d felt in eighth grade when he got his first crush on a boy and realized they were _right_ . They were all right about him, all along, he was a fag, just like they all said. He remembered how he’d been sickened with himself; how he’d cried himself to sleep for weeks when he’d realised it; how he’d tried to date girls, to like them, to _make_ himself straight.

It had taken years for him to even begin to accept it, and even longer for him to tell anyone. He was in the eleventh grade when he had confessed to Bill. Confessed, for it had felt like a confession, an admission to a sin he had never wanted to commit. They’d been sitting side by side on Bill’s bed, and Eddie had thought he might throw up, and then Bill had laughed a relieved sort of laugh.

“I am too,” he’d said. “God, I was so scared to tell you.”

They had laughed, and laughed, and then held each other and cried, and cried, until they had no tears left.

 

Now, Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat. “And some other stuff,” he finished. He hoped to God Richie didn’t hear the pain in his voice.

 

***

 

He did. He _hated_ it. A minute ago Eddie had been laughing; it made Richie's heart ache to hear him sound so broken now. He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness that surprised even himself. He wanted to comfort Eddie; to tell him it would be okay, that whatever people had told him was untrue, it didn't matter, he was better than any of them, he was  _fantastic._   

But he didn't.

“Wheezy, huh?” he grinned instead. “Making fun of you for your asthma - who would even _do_ something like that?”

Eddie barked a laugh, and though it was short and strained it relieved the worried knot in Richie’s chest. “Yeah, I wonder. What assholes, right?”

“Definitely,” Richie agreed seriously. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of teasing you for a _medical condition_.”

“I dunno,” Eddie said. “I mean, it _is_ prime joke material.”

They grinned at each other from across the table, and Richie pretended not to see the tears glistening in the other’s eyes. He sipped his hot chocolate, and Eddie sipped his own, and Richie laughed at his whipped cream mustache.

 

Outside, the sun was just beginning to awake. Morning had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Development??? In their relationship???? And feelings????? It's more likely than you think. I'm so pumped for the next chapter. Be fuckin ready.
> 
> (Also - I'm really REALLY excited for what I think will end up as chapter ten or eleven, so just... keep that in mind.)


	8. Snow, And Other Falling Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ASS it just wasn't working??? It wouldn't come out the way I wanted it to??? Anyway I think I might hate it other than the last little bit but I'm sick of working on it because I wrote half of the next one while I was stuck on the one scene and I want this one over with HA

They left the café shortly afterwards, when the morning was still fresh and the air was cold and bright with dawn. It was strange, walking with Richie in the pale, watery light. Eddie was so used to seeing him in the dark, it almost felt wrong to be with him under the gentle rays of the rising sun.

Almost.

This time of morning was magic, Eddie thought, though different from the lonely spell of the night. It was still peaceful, still quiet, still empty. He and Richie were still the only two people on the planet, in a dream world entirely of their own. But it felt hopeful, in a way. Excited. Full of anticipation for the day to come. 

It felt  _ alive _ .

 

***

 

They watched as they walked, as lights turned on and cars started, and signs were flipped from  _ Sorry, We’re Closed _ to  _ Come in, We’re Open _ . They watched as the sun grew brighter and warmer and altogether more present, and as people began appearing on the street with blurry eyes and disheveled hair and paper cups of coffee clutched in cold hands. It was oddly cathartic, seeing the world wake up around them. It made Richie feel  _ real _ , in a way he so rarely did.

He had started to feel that more and more, around Eddie. When he was with him, it was like the invisible wall that separated Richie from those around him fell away. Eddie’s smile cracked its foundations. His laugh crumbled it to dust. Eddie understood him,  _ saw _ him _.  _ Around him, Richie didn’t feel lonely, or empty, or like a puppet on a string. He felt  _ good _ . He felt bulletproof.

He felt  _ alive _ .

Now, he took Eddie’s hand in his, just because he could. He could feel Eddie’s pulse though his skin.

Eddie didn’t let go.

 

***

 

It was nearly eight in the morning when Eddie finally collapsed onto his couch, the weight of the night heavy on his eyelids. He’d said a sleepy goodbye to Richie out in the hallway, and Richie had looked almost surprised before saying it back. Eddie would realise later that his surprise had been because it was the first time they’d ever actually  _ said _ goodbye. They normally just smiled, if even that, as they closed the doors between them. Eddie would think later that the fact that they had used parting words this time must have meant something, somehow - though he wouldn’t be able to think what.

For now, as he nestled into the blankets on the couch, he found he was too tired to think much of anything. As he drifted off, the only thought that would come to his mind was of Richie. Richie, and his curly hair and his buck toothed smile and his crooked nose and the scar on his furry eyebrow. Richie, and the way he laughed at everything and seemed to light up the night around him as if he were made of fireflies. Richie, and the way he had, in these few short months, managed to carve himself a space in Eddie’s heart; a space Eddie hadn’t known needed to be filled. Richie, and the fact that he had so quickly become one of Eddie’s dearest friends.

He wondered if Richie was thinking of him, too.

 

***

 

(He was.)

 

***

 

He doubted it.

 

***

 

Two weeks had passed since then.

Richie now had precisely twenty three days left to finish his final project, and all he had written so far were a couple of half hearted character names. If he’d thought he’d been worried before, that was  _ nothing _ to how he felt now. He was consumed with guilt and anxiety each time he so much as thought of his neglected notebook, sitting accusing and unopened on his desk. 

Not for lack of trying, of course. Richie had spent countless hours at that desk, writing in lines before promptly shaking his head and scratching them out. Even now, he was sat with his glasses pushed into his hair and his hands over his face, praying to a God he didn’t believe in for  _ just one fucking idea _ . No matter what he wrote, it always sounded completely stupid. 

He hated this project.

He shouldn’t go see Eddie tonight, he thought. He should spend some more time working on this fucking play. After all, he was running out of time, and it was worth thirty percent of his final grade. He should really just stay in and write whatever he could, even if it sounded stupid, just to get  _ something _ on the page.

The problem was, he  _ really  _ didn’t want to.

So, with only a small twinge of guilt, he fixed his glasses and closed his notebook and tried not to look back as he left the room. 

 

He could always work on it tomorrow.

  
  


When Richie opened his door, Eddie was already there, standing in his own open doorway in just a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He looked as surprised as Richie felt.

“Hi, said Richie, bemused.

“Hi,” said Eddie.

There was a pause, during which neither of them seemed to know what to say. The silence was loud in here, Richie noticed; louder than it ever was outside. It filled the space around them, echoed off the walls. They stared at each other from across the hall. Eddie picked at a hangnail.

“It’s awful outside, isn’t it?”

Richie hadn’t noticed. He’d been too caught up trying (and failing) to write to notice much of anything. Now that Eddie mentioned it, however, Richie could hear the howling wind outside and he remembered hearing something about a snow storm predicted tonight. “I s’pose so.”

Eddie nodded, and Richie nodded back. Another pause. Then, Eddie took a deep breath, as if preparing himself, and the next words that left his mouth sounded rehearsed. 

 

***

 

It  _ was _ rehearsed.

Eddie had been repeating the six words over and over in his head for almost two hours. He didn’t know why it felt like such a big deal to him - he and Richie were friends after all; it wasn’t  _ weird _ or anything. But he was Eddie Kaspbrak.  _ Everything _ felt like big deal to him. Everything new, in any case.

The weather today had been entirely beautiful. Bright, cloudless, warm for December, if a little windy. It wasn’t until around seven in the evening that the wind had begun to pick up and the clouds had begun to roll in, and soon enough Eddie had been looking out his window at the worst snowstorm he’d ever seen. He knew going out there would be completely idiotic. But he also knew he really wanted to see Richie. 

It was a bit ridiculous. They’d gone days without seeing each other before, even multiple days in a row, and it had never bothered him. But tonight, for some reason, the thought of spending it without Richie felt… wrong. Not sad or lonely or anything like that. Just  _ not right _ . As if it were going against some sort of cosmic order.

He couldn’t quite explain it. Maybe he was just being clingy. He’d been like that with Bill sometimes, too, when they were kids.

Now, he shifted from foot to foot and tried to sound casual as he said:

“Do you want to come in?”

 

***

 

Eddie’s apartment was  _ odd _ . Or rather,  _ being _ in Eddie’s apartment was odd. It was exactly the same as Richie’s, only backwards and - surprisingly - more cluttered. There was stuff everywhere, but it didn’t seem messy. Despite just about every flat surface being covered in miscellaneous objects, it seemed organized. Like it was  _ supposed  _ to be that way. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place - there were just more  _ things _ than  _ places _ .

It was also brighter, somehow, and it smelled a lot nicer - like lavender and laundry soap.

 

“Are you alright?”

Richie glanced up from the depths of his mug. The two were sitting on opposite sides of Eddie’s couch, each with a cup of tea in his hands. His was cold, Richie noticed with a start. Eddie had already finished his own. How long had they been sitting here?

“You’re being quieter than usual,” Eddie explained.

“Aw, is my little Eddie Spaghetti worried about me?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. But he didn’t say he wasn’t worried. 

Richie smiled. “I’m alright.”

He’d always hated the phrase “a problem shared is a problem halved.” It was bullshit. In Richie’s experience, a problem shared was a problem  _ doubled _ . He never talked about his feelings if he could avoid it. If he talked about what bothered him, then he thought about it, and if he thought about it, then he just felt worse. It didn’t help anybody, especially not him. So what was the point?

Eddie was giving him strange sort of look - concerned and almost expectant. It was clear he didn’t believe Richie; that he was waiting for him to say more. His tiny frown almost made Richie  _ want _ to tell him. Tell him about his lack of inspiration and his inability to write anything halfway decent. About how important this project was for his final grade. About how the fact that he couldn’t do this was worrisome, not just for his grades but for his  _ future _ . What kind of shitty director could  _ only _ write one genre? Sure, most  _ specialized _ in one genre, but they were all able to work in others if they tried. Right?

“Let’s make a pillow fort,” he said instead, and tried to ignore the look of disappointment that flickered across Eddie’s face.

 

***

 

Something was bothering Richie, Eddie knew it. He was being so quiet and he had this weird distant look on his face. Part of Eddie wanted to pry - to ask what was wrong, to see if there was anything he could say or do to help. He wanted to make him feel better. But it was clear Richie didn’t want to talk about it, and Eddie didn’t want to overstep.

“Sure,” he said.

And from the look on Richie’s face, Eddie knew there was nothing he could have said that would have made him feel any better than that did.

 

Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he’d built a pillow fort. It must have been with Bill, seeing as he’d been Eddie’s only friend until they’d met Ben and Mike when they were twelve, but it had been so long ago he wasn’t sure he would even know how to make a pillow fort anymore.

It turned out he needn’t have worried. As he quickly realized, building pillow forts was much like riding a bike - impossible to forget. It was practically muscle memory as they set to work - taking chairs from the kitchen, turning the coffee table onto its side, using cups and bowls as weights to keep blankets from slipping. At one point, Richie threw a pillow at Eddie’s head, just because Eddie’s back was turned. It missed - nearly knocked over a lamp - but that didn’t mean he escaped retaliation in the form of a couch cushion straight to the face. This, of course, prompted one of the most intense pillow fights either of them had ever seen, which dwindled only when they heard footsteps down the hall and fell silent for fear of a noise complaint.

When their fort was finally built, the two stood back to admire their handiwork. It was rather sad looking - small and lopsided, with a semi-caved-in blanket roof and only the tiniest opening to get in. Richie grinned.

“Perfect.”

Eddie couldn’t have agreed more.

 

***

 

“What’s your favourite colour?”

They were laying side by side in their fort, close enough that their arms were pressed together. Not that they had much of a choice; the fort was barely big enough for one of them, let alone two. Richie’s legs were so long he had to keep them bent at the knees to keep his feet from peeking out past their blanket wall.

“Yellow,” said Richie, attempting to throw yet another piece of popcorn into his mouth. It bounced off his glasses and onto the floor. Eddie kept telling him he would choke on the popcorn if it ever  _ did _ make it into his mouth, but he would just grin and toss another one. “You?

“Probably green,” he said. “Your turn. Ask me something.” 

“What’s your strangest fear?”

Eddie took a bit of popcorn from the bowl, which was resting on Richie’s chest. Richie could swear Eddie was blushing, though it was hard to tell in the low light. “Promise not to laugh.”

“Cross my heart.”

There was a pause, so long Richie wasn’t sure Eddie was going to speak. Finally, he covered his face with his hands and blurted, “I’m scared of sex.”

Richie blinked. That was… certainly a strange one. “Like - like porn, or…?”

Eddie was shaking his head before Richie had even finished speaking, his hands still over his face. He was  _ definitely _ blushing now. “No. I mean, I’ve never  _ seen _ porn, or read it, or anything like that, but that’s not - it’s more like - I don’t know.” He gave an embarrassed sort of laugh. “I’m just - I’m scared of  _ having  _ sex. My mom always told me about all these diseases I could get. How I’d get really sick, maybe even  _ die _ , and how most of them couldn’t be cured. And it didn’t help that I was - I mean, I  _ am _ \- um.” He seemed to shrink in on himself a little. “I’m gay. And that was always… a big thing. A scary thing. To me, anyway.” 

“Oh.” Richie would have been lying if he’d said he was surprised. It wasn’t that he’d suspected it, but now that he thought about it, he supposed he should have. It was like rereading a book and suddenly noticing that every bit of foreshadowing was glaringly obvious. There was the way he’d seemed uncomfortable the rare times Richie had mentioned girls, and how he got so flustered whenever Richie made jokes about his own looks, and -

_ “And some other stuff.”  _

Richie’s heart dropped into his stomach.  _ Some other stuff _ . He knew now exactly what that “other stuff” must have been, and exactly how hard it must have been for Eddie to hear. To have a part of who he was, a part he couldn’t change, be used as a weapon against him. To have  _ those _ words thrown at him like rocks, and sting just as badly...

Richie knew. He had had the very same rocks thrown at him. It had never bothered him (very much), in part because he was so used to it, but it bothered him now. It bothered him that Eddie had had to go through that too. Imagining him living his life terrified, not just of the bullies but of  _ himself _ ; of this part of himself; of somebody finding out - it broke Richie’s heart.

And it pissed him off beyond measure.

He wanted to pull Eddie close and erase all the pain he’d ever had to endure. He also wanted to find every person who had ever bestowed that pain on him and snap their fucking necks. As he could do neither, he opted for the next best thing: he took Eddie’s hand and held it against his own chest. Eddie jumped, but didn’t move away.

“I don’t think it’s a big thing,” Richie said. Eddie looked surprised. “I mean, no, that came out wrong, it is a big thing. It’s part of who you are. That’s big. I just mean I don’t see you any differently because of it.” He squeezed his hand gently. “You’re still you. You’re still Eds.”

Eddie stared at their joined hands, speechless, for what felt like a million years. There were tears glistening in his eyes, and Richie was sure he had said something wrong, and  _ shit  _ should he apologize or - ? 

Then Eddie looked up, and their eyes met, and Richie’s heart skipped a beat. “Thanks,” he whispered. 

And then he smiled. And then the world stopped turning. 

He just fucking  _ smiled _ , the way he had countless times before. But instead of the warm, comfortable feeling that smile had always given him, Richie suddenly felt like he had been punched in the stomach, stealing the breath from his lungs. He felt as if he had been thrown off a ten story building and had left his heart at the top and was now plummeting in freefall. His stomach was filled with butterflies. His heart was beating a mile a minute. His fucking head was spinning.  _ Spinning _ . He didn’t think that even happened in real life.

All because Eddie had smiled at him. Just. Fucking. Smiled.

“Anyway,” Eddie added, and his voice sent shockwaves through Richie’s body. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Eds?”

Suddenly, everything made sense. The skipping beats, the weird protectiveness, the way he felt so stupidly good around him -  _ it all made sense _ . Richie Tozier had a big, stupid crush on Eddie Kaspbrak.

Oh  _ fuck _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing about Richie's writer's block is definitely not just a way of dealing with my own writer's block what are you talking about???? *nervous laughter*
> 
> For the record, Richie's strangest fear is clowns. He had a dream about a demon clown when he was a kid and it "completely fucking traumatized" him (his words, not mine) (I mean, technically they are mine) (but you get the point).  
> Also I don't think this is important enough to actually write the scene in but at one point while they were walking together, Richie definitely walked face first into a stop sign and Eddie definitely laughed so hard he almost gave himself an asthma attack (based on a true story feat. my sister)


	9. Pyrotechnics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN  
> Pls forgive my extended absence, finals week + depression + good ol writer's block = seventeen rewrites of the same two pages with nothing sounding good. Who would have guessed all it would take to cure me would be watching The Perks of Being A Wallflower for the fifteen millionth time?

Christmas came and went in a blur of sparkly decorations and incessant Christmas music. Neither Eddie nor Richie decorated their apartments. They didn’t see the point - Eddie always went home for the holidays and Richie had never been the biggest fan of Christmas. Growing up in a poor, not especially doting family meant Christmas had never been treated as anything special. It was a miracle if his father even got it off work. Since moving out, Richie had spent every Christmas with Stan who didn’t celebrate, and Beverly, whose family was even more fucked up than Richie’s. It was the one day a year Stan would agree to get high with Bev and Richie, and the only day Bev would actually watch movies with the two of them without complaining about their incessant banter.

For Eddie’s family, however, Christmas was always an ordeal. Every year since he was born, his entire extended family came to visit, which meant he and his mother spent all of December 23rd cleaning the house in preparation for their arrival. Of course, it was never _quite_ clean enough for Crazy Aunt Magda, about whom Eddie graced Richie with many stories upon his return.

“I mean, _seriously_ ,” he was saying now. The street down which they walked wasn’t nearly as deserted as usual. It was quarter to midnight on New Year’s Eve and the streets were bustling with people. Most were drunk, shouting and laughing rowdily on their way from one party to the next. Some were cheerfully rushing to find the best spots to watch the fireworks, which were bound to start at any minute. A woman hurried past with two young children, one in her right arm and the other clinging to her left hand.

“She _knows_ I’m gay,” Eddie went on. “Mom told her the day she found out, but every year she asks if I’ve got a girlfriend yet and when I’m going to get married. I swear, she thinks if she pretends I’m straight long enough it’ll come true.”

Richie laughed. “Thank God I don’t have to deal with that shit anymore.” He hadn’t talked much about his parents, but from what Eddie could gather, they weren’t exactly close. He didn’t think Richie had even seen them since moving out. “My mom calls every year, but it’s easy to hang up when she inevitably starts getting on my case about picking a _real_ major and thinking about an _actual_ career.”

Eddie smiled uncomfortably. He could only imagine what his own mother would say about Richie’s major. Her reaction to Bill’s decision to pursue an English degree had been bad enough. “That Bill is such a _smart_ boy,” she’d sighed over dinner one night. “What a waste. With his brains, he could study law or medicine; do something useful with his life. He’ll never find a job with such a silly degree.” At this point, she’d shaken her head and pointed an admonitory finger at Eddie, as if _he_ was the one who had chosen to study English. “Now Eddie Bear, don’t you even _think_ about following his footsteps, you hear? You’re going to get a _good_ degree, a _smart_ degree. Understand?”

“Yes Mama,” he’d said.

“Good. Finish your asparagus, baby, you know you need the vitamins.”

“Yes Mama.” There was nothing else to say. There never was, really.

Richie would disagree, Eddie thought. Richie would speak his mind no matter what, even if it was best to keep his mouth closed. Whether that was because he was brave or because he just didn’t think, Eddie still hadn’t decided. But he respected it.

He tried to picture introducing Richie to his mother. She would hate him. Eddie knew that for sure. Not only was he a drama student, but he never shut up and he was kind of rude and very irresponsible - and he _smoked_ . Smoking was about the worst thing a person could do in Sonia’s opinion. She would probably rather Eddie be friends with a murderer than a smoker. He could only imagine the way his mother would treat Richie, and the lecture Eddie would receive about being friends with such a _terrible influence_. He shuddered.

“You cold?” Richie asked, startling Eddie out of his skin.

“Yes,” he said truthfully. It was a cold night, and Eddie felt like they’d been walking for hours. “Where are we even _going_?” he demanded, for the sixth time. Richie had told him it was the best place in town to watch the fireworks but wouldn’t give him any more information than that. Eddie kept slipping the question into their conversation, as if Richie would tell him more if he was caught off guard, but so far it hadn’t worked.

Richie grinned. “You’ll see,” he said. For the sixth time. Eddie sighed.

“Are we close, at least?” He most certainly was _not_ whining, and anyone who said differently was a god damn liar. “It’s freezing out here.”

“You’re just a pussy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Why Eds,” he gasped in a Southern drawl. “At least buy me dinner first.”

“Beep beep, fucker.”

Richie’s laugh boomed, making heads turn his way. Eddie hadn’t realised quite how loud Richie’s laugh was before now. Everything seemed loud in the silence of the night, so Eddie had never thought much of the way it echoed. Now though, with so many people around, he was hyper aware of its absurd volume.

It was a ridiculous laugh, too. One of the dumbest ones Eddie had ever heard.

Still, Eddie never could fight his own grin when he heard it. It was a stupid laugh, yes, but it was catching. He didn’t even mind the eyes he knew were on them.

Not very much, anyway.

 

After a few more minutes of walking, Richie stopped at the mouth of an alley between two tall buildings. He peered down into the darkness as though looking for something. Eddie peeked over his shoulder. It was almost pitch black in there, with no end in sight.

“What is it?” Eddie asked, sure he must have seen a stray cat. Richie was completely stupid about cats.

“I’m just trying to remember…” he trailed off pensively, squinting into the darkness. Suddenly, he nodded. “Yeah. This is the way. Come on then.”

Eddie blinked. “Down _there_ ?” he squeaked. “Are you joking? Do you know how unsanitary alleys like that are? They’re crawling with trash and bugs and - and _rats_. Do you know how many diseases rats can carry?”

“Nope,” Richie said cheerfully.

“Hundreds! Literally hundreds! And I don’t even want to think about the drug needles. What if we step on one? We could get AIDS!”

“We’re wearing shoes, idiot.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie sniffed. “Needles can easily puncture rubber soles.”

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” Richie insisted. He was using his wheedling voice; the one Eddie had not once been able to refuse. “Come on, Eddie Spaghetti, the view later on will definitely be worth it.”

“Don’t call me Eddie Spaghetti.”

“I’ll never call you that again if you come with me right now,” he offered. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Yes you will.” But he had already taken half a step into the alley.

“I won’t!” Richie grinned, grabbing his hand to pull him along further. “Scout’s honour.”

Eddie frowned, but made no effort to pull away. “You were a boy scout?”

“Nope. But Stan was, so that makes me one by association.”

“That’s… not at all how it works.”

They walked silently a ways down the alley, Eddie trailing nervously half a step behind Richie. It was so dark Eddie could only see Richie’s outline, though he was barely a foot in front of him. The noises of the street sounded remote, though Eddie was sure they hadn’t gotten very far. Something clanged a distance ahead of them. Eddie’s free hand clutched Richie’s sleeve impulsively.

“Scared?” Richie asked. Eddie could hear the grin in his voice.

“Shut up.” His face burned. But he didn’t let go.

Finally, Richie stopped, looking up at the towering building to their right. “Here we are,” he said.

Eddie stared at him. “We’re watching the fireworks _here_?” He didn’t see how this could be the best place in town to watch them. He could see only a narrow strip of the sky between the walls of the buildings that surrounded them.

“Nope.” He pointed upwards. “We’re watching the fireworks up there.”

Before Eddie could ask exactly what the hell he meant by that, Richie jumped up and caught the bottom of a fire escape ladder. It screeched like a banshee as he pulled it down, stiff from what looked like a century’s worth of rust. Richie waved his arms at the ladder in a “Ta-da!” gesture.

“Okay. Great.” Eddie regarded the ladder distrustfully. “I hope you know there’s no way I’m touching that.”

“Aw c’mon, Eds, it’s perfectly safe.” He gave it a tug as if to prove his point; it made a noise like nails on a chalkboard. Something fell from an unseen height and hit the ground near Richie’s foot. It clattered away into the darkness. Eddie winced.

“Yeah, I can definitely see that,” he snarked. Aside from the horrid noises it made, the ladder was missing several rungs and Eddie felt sure none of the screws could be very tight. Besides that, the thing was more rust than metal. He was going to get tetanus just from looking at it.

“Trust me,” Richie said. “I haven’t gotten you killed yet, have I?”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Eddie mumbled, and even as he said it he knew it was true. Richie had absolutely no sense of self preservation. He would probably jump off a building just to see if he could survive it. And yet somehow, inexplicably, Eddie trusted him.

Maybe trust wasn’t quite the right word. He definitely didn’t trust Richie’s judgement, and he wasn’t sure he believed him when he swore it was safe either. But Richie had him under some kind of spell. It was impossible to say no to him. He knew he would follow Richie Tozier anywhere - even if only to make sure the idiot didn’t get _himself_ killed.

 _God_ , Eddie hated it.

He heaved the sigh of a man with nothing left to lose. “If I fall and die, I’ll make damn sure that you do too.”

Richie looked as if Eddie had just given him the greatest present he could imagine.

Eddie told himself the flutter of his heart was nerves, and nothing more.

 

***

 

To Eddie’s visible relief, they didn’t climb the rickety fire escape all the way to the roof - just to the third floor window that Richie knew was never locked. They crawled through the window - Richie with practiced ease; Eddie hesitantly - and stood in the dimly lit hallway of an empty office building.

“We shouldn’t be in here,” Eddie whispered.

“We won’t be for long,” Richie whispered back. “Come on.”

He led Eddie past meeting rooms and labelled offices to a heavy door at the end of the hall. It led to a musty stairwell lit by fluorescent lights that flickered weakly from years of overuse. Eddie still looked nervous. He was glancing shiftily over his shoulder as though looking for hidden cameras.

“Nobody checks the surveillance tapes,” Richie assured him.

Eddie glanced at him sharply. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve done this loads of times and I haven’t yet been arrested for trespassing,” he laughed. “So either no one checks the tapes or they just don’t care enough to report it. Either way, we’re safe.”

Eddie stopped looking fretfully around after that, but the stiffness didn’t leave his shoulders.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Richie’s legs were burning, though he would never admit it. A door stood proudly in front of them. This one was different from the seven they’d passed making their way up the stairs; the ones that led back into the main building. For one thing, this door had a glowing red _Exit to Roof_ sign above it. For another, it was insulated, and it had a push bar to open it rather than a simple handle.

“Here we are,” Richie said, trying not to sound as winded as he felt.

“Here we are,” Eddie repeated.

“I hope you’re ready to see something fucking amazing. Although,” he added. “Not quite as amazing a sight as my di -”

“Just open the door, Trashmouth.”

With a self-satisfied grin, he did, and the two young men stepped out into the icy air of ten storeys high.

 

***

 

The city looked different from up here. It always did. Everything was microscopic and telescopic, oddly peaceful in its distance. Toy cars drove down inch wide streets. People the size of ants milled about like as many insects. Distant sounds of shouts and cheering were audible but only just, as quiet as whispers from this far up.

Though there were countless people awake and about, Eddie and Richie felt just as alone as they did when the world was asleep. Maybe it was the space that separated them from the rest of the town. They were a hundred feet up, looking down at the streets like birds soaring over an ocean. Their eyes took in the entire city, but not a single person could see them. Sitting up there, they were gods. Or maybe they were ghosts - invisible, even to the night.

The two boys sat at the edge of the roof and gazed upon a city that was, for once, as awake as they were.

And the sky came alive with light.

 

***

 

It was strange, Eddie thought, how the boom of each firework didn’t come until a few seconds after the explosion of colour. It made sense, of course (he knew basic science - the fact that sound traveled slower than light was common knowledge), but it was still mildly disconcerting.

“Pretty cool, right?” Richie raised his voice to be heard above the explosions, which were coming rather close together now. “The view from here?”

Eddie shrugged. It seemed odd to talk during the fireworks, for some reason. It seemed like talking during church or at a movie - not something that was done. “I have nothing to compare it to,” he said. “I’ve never actually gone to see fireworks before.” His mother had never liked him to go; had told him the smoke would be bad for his asthma. He’d known for several years now that that had been a lie, but he still hadn’t gone. It felt like disobeying her. He knew it was stupid - he was an adult and he could do what he wanted - but he still hated doing anything against her wishes. Call it habit.

Richie was appalled. “ _Never_?” he gasped.

“I used to watch them from my bedroom window back home.” A red catherine wheel danced across the sky; people on the ground cheered faintly. “But I couldn’t see much of it, and the fireworks in Derry were never that great anyway.”

“Wow.” Richie whistled. “I can’t believe I’m the one who gets to take your virginity.”

“ _What_?”

“Your firework virginity.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s an honour, really.”

“I - Jesus _Christ,_ Richie!” Eddie smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t phrase it like _that_. It sounds so perverted.”

Richie laughed. “Hey, you’re the one who took it that way. It’s not my fault you have a dirty mind.”

“ _How else was I supposed to take it_?”

Richie bit his lip. He looked like he was trying hard not to grin. “There’s a joke to be made there,” he said.

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Low hanging fruit, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie laughed despite himself. A firework burst in a large sphere and rained down in tendrils of gold. “I thought you said you’d never call me that again.”

“I lied.” He bumped Eddie’s shoulder with his own. “So, how’s your first ever firework experience going?”

Eddie looked at the sky, where four beams of silver light were shooting upwards, leaving sparkling trails behind them like shooting stars. Three exploded simultaneously into glitter; one went higher and burst in a magnificent sphere of green and pink. Then, he looked at Richie. He was leaning back with his hands behind him and his legs dangling off the edge of the roof. Eddie could see tiny fireworks reflected in his glasses. He looked so _cool_. With his denim jacket that wasn’t nearly warm enough for this weather and his hair in his face and a half smile on his lips, he looked like some kind of movie star. Confident and reckless and endlessly cheerful. He looked like everything Eddie had always wanted to be.

“Incredible,” he said.

He wasn’t sure he was talking about the fireworks anymore.

 

***

 

Richie loved the ending of fireworks. Not the grand finale, but the moments afterwards. After it all ended. When the echoes of explosions faded out and smoke drifted slowly across the sky. It felt peaceful, like when a rainstorm finally stops. It always felt like a fresh start, like a new day - like anything was possible.

Ethereal. That was how it felt. Fucking _ethereal_.

He thought maybe he liked that better than the fireworks themselves.

Not a single star was visible behind the gunpowder smog the fireworks had left behind. In the sudden silence, Richie could hear the sounds of life a hundred feet below as people cheered the aerial display. He sort of felt like cheering too. Instead, he turned to the boy beside him, a dopey smile on his lips.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” Eddie was still staring out over the city. Richie realized he wasn't sure what he'd been planning to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Thank you.”

Eddie gave a small, bemused laugh. “For coming to the fireworks with you?”

“For coming into my life.”

He said nothing for a moment, but Richie was too happy to read into his silence. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me Eddie,” he said at last.

“I’m trying to be sincere,” Richie said. “Is it working?”

Eddie looked at him then, and his eyes were lightning, setting every part of Richie’s body alight. “Yes,” he whispered.

For an infinite moment, Eddie’s expression was soft and open and Richie’s heart leaped into his throat. For an infinite moment, it was like the fireworks had started all over again, just for the two of them: tiny, beautiful explosions flashed brilliantly between their eyes. For an infinite, _magical_ moment, Richie was flying on golden wings. Eddie was by his side, looking at him with those mesmerizing eyes, and they were one hundred feet in the air. It was just the two of them and the moon and the stars they couldn’t see. In that moment nothing else mattered. In that moment, all Richie wanted to do was to lean in and kiss those perfect, smiling lips.

And then Eddie looked away, and the moment was gone, and Richie wondered whether there had even _been_ a moment in the first place. He was no longer soaring. He was Icarus.

Far below them, people celebrated the beginning of a new year. Richie’s heart burst into flames.

 

***

 

Eddie’s heart, too, was on fire, but in a completely different way. His entire body burned with embarrassment and shock and - _excitement_ . He was thankful for the darkness that hid his face; he was sure it was redder than it had ever been. Richie’s eyes, when he’d looked at him, had been _electric_. Nobody had ever looked at Eddie like that before - like he held the secrets to the universe in the palm of his hand. It had made Eddie’s heart burn in a way he didn’t recognize. He pressed his thumb against the opposite wrist, feeling the thrum of his blood under his skin.

For a moment, he’d been certain Richie had been about to kiss him.

For a moment, he’d been certain he’d wanted him to.

He watched the smoke drift across the obsidian sky and he felt his rapid pulse in his wrist, and he wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take THAT writer's block you stupid god damn son of a bitch  
> Also has anyone seen The Death Cure yet because HOOOO BOY IM IN LOVE my username is the same as this one on tumblr and instagram hit me up to scream about it with me


	10. Collide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have this done by yesterday. oops.  
> ALSO im sick and im the most whiny and annoying sick person ever and you know who else definitely is? Stanley the Manley Uris. I may have to write a lil something on that. We'll see.
> 
> OOPS LONG CHAPTER

Inspiration was a funny little thing. It came from the strangest of places: a song on the radio; an snippet of an overheard conversation; the gleam of sunlight on newly fallen snow. Rose petals. Fireworks. Starlight. Smiles in the dark and whispers floating away on the wind.

Nearly kissing a beautiful boy on the roof of a ten storey building.

It was this that gave Richie inspiration, this particular night, to finally write his stupid play. He had precisely three days to finish (he was meant to have it submitted by the first of January, but he’d practically begged his professor for an extension. It was only because Richie had a reputation as one of the top students that it had been allowed). He still hadn’t written anything of any worth. He’d been working on a half-assed thriller, but it was riddled with clichés and more plot holes than he could count. Still, it was better than nothing, and Richie had been starting to think he would just have to accept it.

Now, however, all thoughts of his thriller were gone from his mind as he flipped open his notebook to the first blank page. As he scrambled around for a pen, he wondered absently why he hadn’t thought of this sooner. It was so glaringly obvious. While he had sat and struggled for weeks on end, the perfect plot had been right in front of him the entire time.

 _Act I, Scene I,_ he scrawled. _Nighttime. A young man sits at his window, looking out upon the street below. Another man stands waiting outside, smoking a cigarette…_

Time seemed to blur as he wrote, his chicken scratch growing less legible by the second. His hand ached. His eyes burned. On and on he went, writing until his exhausted eyes drooped shut.

***

 

“And then I almost kissed him, Bill. _Kissed_ him!” Eddie dropped his head in his hands and let out a long groan of embarrassment. “Do you know how awful that would have been? He would hate me forever.”

Bill smiled sympathetically. They were sitting side by side on his bed, their backs against the headboard and a bowl of popcorn between them. Eddie had called him the instant he’d gotten home the night before. He and Richie had spent a couple of hours after the fireworks meandering around and watching people make fools of themselves in the street. They’d ended up at the playground around two in the morning, where they had sat on the swings and counted the stars until they couldn’t feel their toes anymore. Well, Eddie sat. Richie had swung as high as he could and jumped off over and over again, ignoring Eddie’s repeated warnings that he was bound to break an arm.

Bill hadn’t answered Eddie’s four in the morning phone call, of course. Not because he was sleeping (did anyone sleep on New Year’s Eve?) but because he’d spent the night at his boyfriend’s apartment halfway across town. He _had_ called Eddie back as soon as he’d gotten home that afternoon and listened to his semi-hysteric voicemail.

“He wouldn’t hate you,” Bill assured him now. “He reacted fine when you t-t-told him you’re gay, didn’t he?”

Eddie shrugged impatiently. “Yeah, but that was different. It’s easy to accept it in theory, but this makes it real. What if it freaks him out and he doesn’t want to be around me anymore?”

“Then he’s not the sort of p-person you want to be around anyway, is he?”

Eddie said nothing; merely stuffed more popcorn in his mouth and chewed it harder than Bill thought was necessary. Bill waited. Years of experience had made him an expert on dealing with a moody Eddie.

“There’s no _point_ in telling him anyway,” Eddie said finally. “I mean, he’s straight, right? Nothing could come of it. Right?” He looked at Bill and his expression was at once sad, nervous, and maybe a little hopeful.

Bill shrugged. He really wasn’t sure what to say. He knew what Eddie wanted to hear - “Definitely, you’re right, you should just forget about it.” But somehow, Bill didn’t think that was strictly true. He couldn’t say why - he had never met Richie after all; he only had Eddie’s stories to go off of - but he was sure that Eddie’s feelings weren’t entirely one-sided.

He didn’t think he should say that. Just in case he was wrong.

Eddie seemed to take his silence as agreement, and he nodded decisively. “Right. So it’s best to just get over this stupid crush. I doubt it’s even a crush, anyway. I bet it was just the moment, with the light and the roof and the -” he gestured vaguely. “Everything. It made it feel more romantic than it was. By the time I wake up tomorrow, I’ll have forgotten all about it.”

Somehow, Bill doubted it. He thought it best not to say that, either.

 

***

 

Eddie hadn’t forgotten all about it. Not by the next morning, when he woke up to the sound of birds chirping and Bill snoring and he found himself wondering what it might be like to wake up next to Richie instead (he immediately slammed a pillow over his head as if to block out his own thoughts).

Not by that afternoon, when he was on the bus back to his apartment and caught his reflection in the window, and remembered the fireworks mirrored in Richie’s glasses (he turned away from the window so fast his neck cracked).

Not by the evening, when he was cutting up vegetables and he heard music coming from across the hall, and he wondered what Richie was doing, and he thought about how easy it would be to go across and knock on his door (the knife slipped in his hand in surprise at his own thoughts and nicked his left pinky).

He sighed in frustration as he dropped the knife on the counter, turning on the tap to run his hand under warm water. Once the blood was cleared away, he patted it dry with a paper towel and headed to the bathroom to clean it properly. He washed his hands, dried them with a clean towel, and opened the medicine cabinet to find antibiotics.

There, directly in the middle of the shelf, was a nearly-full box of Hello Kitty bandaids. Suddenly, his mind was racing with memories - Richie, wrapping a bandage around his finger with a gentleness Eddie hadn’t thought he was capable of. Richie, walking along the stone wall of a flower bed with his arms stuck to the sides for balance. Richie, squeezing his hand in a shitty pillow fort on the living room floor; smiling at him under the stars; laughing on the ground after walking into a stop sign; grabbing Eddie’s foot under a wobbly table; staring intensely at him under a street light. Richie, sitting on the roof of an office building, so close Eddie could kiss him. Richie. Richie. _Richie._

Eddie slammed the cupboard shut, his heart racing.

 _Dammit_.

 

***

 

It was four in the morning and Richie’s back was aching. He was lying flat on his back on Eddie’s living room floor, his feet propped up on the couch. Eddie was beside him, though he was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. He had fallen asleep an hour earlier. Richie doubted a freight train would wake him now. For all his trouble falling asleep, he sure had no issues _staying_ asleep.

In the weeks since the first time Eddie had invited him in (and even more so since the fireworks), Richie had been spending a lot more time in this apartment. Richie would come over in the evening or early night and they would sit on the couch or on the floor and talk about nothing at all. Richie would always complain about Eddie’s singing clock, and Eddie would tell Richie he smelled bad, and they would bicker until they found some other nonsense to discuss. One night, they found themselves arguing over who was the better artist, which culminated in the two of them drawing spectacularly bad portraits of one another and laughing until they couldn’t breathe. They still went walking nearly every night. They balanced on train tracks and raced each other to stop signs and Richie almost always won. And somehow, afterward, they both ended up wrapped in blankets in Eddie’s window seat, facing each other with their legs entangled in the small space between them.

Richie wondered sometimes whether he spent more time here than in his own apartment. Not that he minded. He loved it. He loved the cluttered, homely feeling of the apartment. He loved the framed pictures strewn about the place: pictures of Eddie with two other boys, pictures of Eddie and a woman Richie assumed was his mother (these were the most numerous), pictures of the woman on her own, and of the boys without Eddie. He loved the pillow forts they made and the blankets Eddie wrapped himself in and the small touches they shared without thinking about it. He loved the way they would lay side by side and talk until their voices were rough and their eyes would stay open no longer, and he loved that he always woke up first (how Eddie could sleep through the sound of that singing clock was a mystery to him). He loved that he could stay there for an embarrassingly long time after waking, marvelling at how cute Eddie was when he slept, though he made sure he was gone by the time he woke up.

Sometimes, in his sleep, Eddie would mumble something incoherent, or kick Richie in the stomach, or even whack him in the face, and all Richie would think was how damn adorable it was. Sometimes, Richie would rest his head in Eddie’s lap and (after trying to and giving up on pushing him off) Eddie would play with his hair and Richie’s heart would do somersaults. Sometimes, he got home and realized his shirt smelled like Eddie and he wouldn’t wear it or wash it for days, until the smell went away on its own.

Sometimes, he thought his feelings might be more than just a crush. Sometimes, he thought he might be in love with Eddie.

He tried not to think about that too much.

Now, Eddie rolled over in his sleep, making a noise like a wounded cat, and Richie couldn’t help but smile. He thought of what Eddie had said to him, moments before falling asleep.

“We should hang out sometime,” he’d mumbled. His eyes were closed.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” Richie was counting the freckles on Eddie’s nose; the ones he could only really see if it was light enough and they were close enough.

“Mmph.” He’d made a movement that may have been a shrug. “Different. I mean during the day.”

Richie had blinked, startled. “Yeah?”

They never spent time together during the day. There was no special reason for it - they just _didn’t_ . Richie hadn’t even seen Eddie in the sunlight since the time they had walked home from the café at dawn. They had met in the night, and they had spent almost every night together since. Daytime was a different world - a world where they were no longer alone; no longer invincible. It was a world full of light and life and _so much noise_. A world that had hurt them both a million times over.

The night was different. It was special. Under the stars, nothing could touch them. The night was _theirs_ \- a world of magic and secrets and silence. A world made entirely for the two of them. It was the best kind of loneliness.

The night belonged to them - or maybe they belonged to the night.

A car drove by outside. Richie listened to the engine fade out into the night and he thought of the way Eddie’s hair had looked in the early morning sunlight. He remembered the light on Eddie’s eyes, turning them from chocolate brown to a deep gold, and the way his freckles had looked in the sun.

Maybe it was time for worlds to collide.

“Sure,” he had whispered. “Let’s do it.”

Eddie had said nothing. When Richie looked over, he was already fast asleep.

 

***

 

Eddie was alone when he woke up, aching all over, later that morning. This was unsurprising. Though he usually fell asleep with Richie by his side, he always woke up alone. He tried to tell himself this didn’t upset him, though he couldn’t help but hope in the seconds between waking and opening his eyes that he might see Richie there beside him. And it was ridiculous (and probably a little pathetic), but he could never fight the disappointment he felt every time he saw he was alone.

Maybe Richie had classes early, or some other reason he needed to leave. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lay on the floor all night. Which was fair, Eddie thought, wincing as he pushed himself into a sitting position. The floor wasn’t exactly comfortable, even with the nests of blankets he and Richie always made.

As Eddie sat up, something fell from his forehead and fluttered to the ground. A small, rectangular piece of paper, about the size of a receipt, landed innocently beside his hand. Frowning, he picked it up.

On it, in sloppy writing he had seen once before, was a note.

 

_How’s Sunday sound?_

_-R_

 

It was then that the memory of what Eddie had said the night before hit him like an anvil.

He didn’t know why he had said it. He never would have had he been fully awake. Maybe it was a momentary lapse in judgement due to sleep deprivation. Maybe it was the way the moonlight streaming through the window had made Richie’s hair shine like obsidian. Maybe it was the feel of Richie’s breath on his cheek, or his body heat breaching the miniscule space between them, or the intoxicating smell of cigarettes and bergamot that always seemed to cling to his body.

Maybe it was just because, somewhere deep down, Eddie had finally realised that it was about fucking time.

Maybe.

 

***

 

“You asked him to hang out with you on _Valentine’s Day_?”

Richie flushed red as Bev cackled. It was Saturday afternoon, two days after Richie had left Eddie his second ever note and one day after Eddie had slid his own note under Richie’s door. He had been sitting on the couch at the time, listening to music and reading over his notes for Art History, when he heard a scraping noise seemingly in the hallway. This was followed by a small thud, a familiar voice hissing “ _fuck_ ”, another scrape, and then silence. Richie had glanced over in time to see a slightly crumpled bit of paper be shoved gracelessly through the gap between his door and the floor. As he unfolded himself from his spot on the couch, he had heard Eddie’s door across the hall slam shut, as if it had been closed in a mild panic. _What a weirdo_ , Richie had thought fondly.

The note, it turned out, had only one word written in slightly disjointed cursive: _Noon_. It was the most ridiculously cryptic note Richie had ever seen. It shouldn’t have made any sense.

But it did. And it made Richie’s heart swell with affection for the idiot who had written it.

Now, Richie, Beverly and Stan were congregated in Stan’s living room to study, though Stan was the only of the three who had so much as glanced at a textbook all afternoon. “I didn’t _realise_ it’s Valentine’s Day,” Richie mumbled. “I just know he doesn’t work on Sundays.”

“Right,” Bev said dubiously. “Of course. Does he know it’s a date?”

Richie choked. “It’s not - it’s not a _date_ , Bev, Jesus Christ.”

“It definitely is,” she insisted. “If you do anything with anybody on Valentine’s Day that makes it a date. Especially your crush.” (Not a minute had gone by that Richie didn’t regret telling her of his feelings for Eddie. She was _relentless_.) “Right Stan?”

Stan didn’t look up from his notes. “A resounding no.”

Richie gave Bev a pointed look, as if to say _see?_ , but she simply waved a dismissive hand. “He’s not listening anyway,” she said, undeterred. “Whatever he says doesn’t count.”

“I’m listening enough to know I disagree,” said Stan.

“You just like disagreeing with me.”

He flipped a page. “You’re not wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Richie interjected. “Because it’s not a date.” _No matter how much he wished it was._

Beverly gave him a hard look. “Right. Okay. So you’re just two friends. Hanging out.”

“Exactly.”

“On Valentine’s Day.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And there’s _nothing romantic about it at all_.”

He pointed finger guns at her and grinned. “You got it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stan, please tell him he’s being an idiot.”

“Richie, you’re an idiot.”

Richie gasped theatrically. “ _Et tu, Brute_?”

“Then fall, Caesar,” Stan replied, deadpan.

Not at all deterred by his lack of enthusiasm, Richie choked dramatically and flung himself to the ground. There, he convulsed violently (nearly knocking over the coffee table in the process) before flinging his arms to the sides and going completely still.

Beverly leapt to her feet. “Liberty!” she exclaimed joyfully. “Freedom! Tyranny is dead!”

Stan shook his head, but he couldn't hide his smile. “You’re both ridiculous,” he said.

“You love us,” said Richie from the floor.

“Debatable.”

“I resent that.” Richie pushed himself to his feet and made a production of dusting himself off. It was completely unnecessary. Stan kept his floors meticulously clean. “Since you _clearly_ hate me and everything I stand for, I’m going out for a smoke.” He held his arm out to Beverly. “Does the lady care to join me?”

“She does,” she said, taking hold of his elbow. She turned to Stan. “We’ll see you in half an hour.”

Despite his cantankerous demeanor, there were very few things in life that Stan Uris truly hated. Artichokes were one. Coffee that cost over five dollars was another. The smell of cigarette smoke, however, was by far the worst; as such, Bev and Richie were denied entry to his apartment up to fifteen minutes after they finished smoking. He insisted the smell lingered for _at least_ that long. “I’ll be here,” he said.

As the two headed for the door, he added: “And Richie, have fun on your date tomorrow.”

“Fuck _off_ Staniel.”

The tips of his ears were red. Stan could hear Beverly laughing long after the door had closed behind them.

***

 

It was ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, and Eddie was _definitely not pacing_. He was just walking. Nervously. Back and forth across his bedroom while tapping his hand anxiously against his leg.

(Okay, so maybe he was pacing.)

Not without reason. He was pacing because Richie was bound to show up any minute (in the next two hours) and Eddie was not prepared in the slightest. He had no idea what he was supposed to wear, how he was supposed to act, what he was supposed to _say_ . He didn’t even know what they were going to do today. Was he supposed to know? He’d been the one to ask Richie, after all, so did that mean he had been supposed to plan it? He hadn’t planned anything. Was that wrong? Shit. _Shit_!

Besides all that, he wasn't prepared _emotionally_ . This was a big step - a _huge_ step! - into completely unfamiliar territory. Maybe to Richie it wasn’t that big of a deal, but for Eddie? This may as well have been the second coming of Christ - _a big fucking deal._

Spending the day with Richie… what would it mean for them? Would it change their friendship? It must. There was no way they could take this step and have absolutely nothing come of it. Something was bound to change between them - but would it be for the better, or for worse?

That was what scared Eddie the most. Sure, this date could bring them closer together - introducing a new setting and all that - but it could also do just the opposite. Eddie was terrified that this would drive a wedge straight through the intimacy they had cultivated between them. He was so afraid that the harsh light of the day would burn holes in their friendship; that they would realise that they really did have nothing in common besides the loneliness of the night.

Wait.

This wasn’t a date… was it?

 _Fuck_. He needed his inhaler.

 

***

 

It wasn’t a date.

Richie kept telling himself this all throughout the morning. He whispered it to his reflection while he brushed his teeth. Said it to the C-3PO figurine on his kitchen counter. He sang it to the tune of Toto’s _Africa_ as he flipped his omelet, and repeated it once more before eating as if he was saying grace. His reflection heard it once more as he brushed his teeth again, because nobody wanted egg breath even on a not-date. He repeated it like a mantra as he tried on and discarded a million different outfits, because even though it wasn’t a date, it didn’t mean he couldn’t look his best.

It wasn’t a date.

He said it so many times he was sure it would sink in. It wasn’t a dte, so he didn’t understand the butterflies that fluttered persistently in his stomach (why should he be nervous if it wasn’t a date?), or the way he felt compelled to check his hair at least twenty five times. It wasn’t a date, so why did he keep checking the time every three seconds as if noon was just around the corner, and not another hour away. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date!

“ _Have fun on your date tomorrow,_ ” Stan had said.

(Half an hour to go.)

“ _It’s definitely a date,_ ” Bev had insisted.

(Fifteen minutes to go.)

“ _It’s a date_ ,” C-3PO seemed to say from his spot on Richie’s counter. Richie glared at him as he pulled on his shoes.

“It’s _not_ a date,” he said aloud. “Okay? It’s not a date.”

C-3PO said nothing (he was made of plastic, after all), but Richie could feel him staring with his dumb beady plastic robot eyes. C-3PO didn’t believe him. Richie wasn’t sure he did either. Nevertheless -

“Not a date,” he said with finality as he closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Bill’s boyfriend is Stan. Bill mentioned him once in chapter two and they’ve been quietly falling in love throughout this entire thing. Does Bill know that Eddie’s Richie is also Stan’s Richie? No. No he does not. Has Eddie realised that Bill’s Stan is also Richie’s Stan? Not a chance. Are they both idiots? Most definitely. Will Bill and Stan get a spin off for their story? Maybe. Maybe.  
> (haha) (get it?)  
> (also don’t ask how all of them can afford their own apartments as college students because I don’t know either) (i was going to throw Stan in a dorm until I remembered dorms don’t allow pets and he has a pet bird) (oops)


	11. Would You Guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that while I was stuck on one (1) transition scene for this chapter, I managed to write three poems, one mileven oneshot, one stenbrough oneshot, five pages of pwp (which?? I've never written smut before how wild), half of chapter 12 of this fic, half of the first chapters of two other fics I've been planning, a few scenes for a screenplay, and an essay. So. Yeah. Fuck localized writer's block I guess.
> 
> In other news, February was a great month for me! I bought a plane ticket, got my first tattoo, was noticed on instagram by a Very Cute Korean actor (speaking of which, if you haven't seen Seoul Searching wyd go watch it right now effective immediately don't talk to me until you have), was noticed irl by my Very Cute coworker, and found out I might be living with one of my best friends next year. So that's fun.

The knock at the door came at exactly eleven fifty eight in the morning. Not that Eddie had been staring at the clock for the last hour, counting down the seconds until noon. That would be stupid. He just _happened_ to have glanced (for the fifth time in two minutes) at the singing clock on the wall half a second before the knock rang out. And he also just _happened_ to already have his shoes and jacket on, and be standing by the door. Totally coincidental.

He took a deep breath, took one last puff from his inhaler, and opened the door.

 

***

 

Richie would deny it if asked, but he had put way too much thought into what time to knock on the door. He didn’t want to show up at exactly noon, because then it would seem like he was trying too hard. But if he was late, he might seem like he didn’t care enough. But if he was early, it might look like he cared _too much_ , and that was almost worse.

Eleven fifty eight, he had decided, was the ideal time. Not late, not exactly on time, but not so early it was weird either. It was just close enough to noon that it would seem like he was paying attention to the time, but not _too_ much attention. Like he knew what time it was, more or less, but like he wasn’t obsessively checking his clock like a fucking weirdo (which he had been. Because he _was_ a fucking weirdo).

Now, Eddie stood in his doorway looking up at Richie. He was wearing pale denim overalls and a striped t-shirt under a blue bomber jacket. His hair was neatly combed and his clothes looked freshly washed and even _ironed_ (seriously? Who even ironed their clothes, besides old ladies?) and Richie suddenly felt horribly inadequate in his ripped jeans and age-old psychedelic pullover.

“So,” said Eddie, standing in the doorframe and looking like a goddamn movie star.

“So,” said Richie, acutely aware of the smudge on his glasses. He wondered if Eddie thought his hair looked as stupid as Richie felt it was. At least he’d tried to comb it.

They stared at each other uncomfortably for what felt like a century, neither entirely sure what to say. Then -

“So should we -”

“Do you want to -”

They both stopped to let the other finish. A beat. Then, simultaneously -

“Sorry -”

“You can -”

There was another silent beat. Eddie’s clock ticked faintly in the background. Finally, Richie laughed. “Do you want to go for lunch?” he tried again. “Or are we going to just stand here like idiots all afternoon?”

Eddie gave him a tiny smile, staring at his feet. “Lunch sounds good.”

Neither moved. The clock ticked.

Fuck it.

Richie grabbed Eddie’s hand and tugged him into the hallway, with slightly more force than he intended. Eddie, caught off guard, stumbled and nearly crashed into Richie’s chest. He righted himself; looked up at Richie with a slight sulk and a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks.

“What was that for?” he asked petulantly. Richie’s heart did a capriole in his chest.

“You were taking too long,” he said simply, thanking every god he could think of that his voice came out steady. “Come on then. Time’s a wastin’.”

The clock began to sing. Eddie closed the door.

Richie didn’t let go of his hand.

 

***

 

Odd. That was the only word for it. The only word to describe the way it felt to be sitting on a shitty old bench in the train station beside Richie, with countless other people milling around them. It was the only word to describe the buzzing of a hundred faceless voices mingling with Richie’s as he babbled on about something that had happened to him the other day. It was the only word to describe the sight of Richie’s face in the beam of afternoon sunlight filtering through the train station’s window, or the way his voice seemed louder now than it ever did at night.

Odd.

It was odd.

 

***

 

Richie talked a lot. It was one of his defining features. He was known for his long legs, buck teeth, huge glasses - and uncanny ability to always find something to say. He was, at best, talkative; at worst, downright annoying. When he was nervous, however, he transcended that to reach an unparalleled level of _infuriatingly garrulous_ like no one had ever seen.

He didn’t mean to. He knew he was being annoying. Hell, even _he_ was annoyed with his incessant chatter. He knew that he should shut the fuck up before he said something truly stupid, but he just couldn’t stop the endless stream of words falling from his mouth. The slightest hint of anxiety effectively destroyed any semblance of a brain-to-mouth filter he had and turned him into a broken faucet, spewing nonstop nonsense with no control.

To make matters worse, Eddie wasn’t talking. He hadn’t said so much as a word since they left the apartment. So Richie filled the silence. He told stories without endings and jokes without punchlines and even he didn’t understand half of what he was saying but he couldn’t stop. Not even for breath.

He talked too loud and too fast and he didn’t give the quiet a second to catch up.

He didn’t give Eddie a chance to not reply.

 

***

 

Eddie felt like an idiot for being so shy. This was _Richie_ . The biggest Trashmouth idiot he had ever known. The same Richie he had felt like he’d known forever; who he could talk to with more ease than anyone; who he had told his deepest secrets under the light of the stars. It was the same old Richie - but _Eddie_ was different. The Eddie he was used to being had vanished right along with the moon. Now, he was back to being the stupid, shy, awkward kid from high school who didn’t know how to talk to anyone but his mother and Bill. The light of day cast a spotlight on all of his fears and insecurities. He was so scared he would say something to mess everything up.

So he said nothing.

He stared at his hands and only half listened to Richie. He nodded when Richie paused and he smiled when he thought he should laugh and he scoured his brain for something - _anything_ \- to say that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot. He wished he could just act like he normally acted. He wished he _knew_ how he normally acted. He wished he wasn’t so anxious and awkward and he wished he would stop thinking about this because it was only making him _more_ anxious and he _wished he’d brought his fucking inhaler_ and -

And all it took was a spoon.

Technically it was a combined effort from a spoon, a glass of water, and three words, but the spoon was the catalyst. The spoon was, ultimately, what cut through the haze of anxiety and discomfort and made everything feel normal again.

They were sitting across from each other at a restaurant table, looking at each other over the rims of the milkshakes they had ordered. Richie’s was chocolate. Eddie’s was strawberry. Neither was touching them. Instead, Richie was talking so fast Eddie could barely understand him, and Eddie was staring silently at his straw to avoid making eye contact.

“ - and then he punched me in the face.” Richie was playing with the utensils left on the table. He was fidgeting a lot today, Eddie had noticed; even more than usual - which was saying something. “Which, okay, yeah, I deserved it, but _still_. You don’t punch a kid with glasses! That’s like, rule number one or something. At least not in the face. The stomach is fair game, or, shit, even the di -”

His next words were lost, however, as the spoon - which he had been waving like a baton as he talked - flew out of his hand. Both boys whipped around and watched as if in slow motion as the spoon soared through the air. Up it went, flipping itself over and over and covering what must have been at least fifteen feet before finally plummeting. Down, down, down - and directly into an elderly woman’s glass of water.

Richie stared. Eddie stared. The woman stared. A heavy silence fell as people who had been innocently eating their lunches began to notice what had occured mere feet from them. Soon, half the restaurant seemed to be staring at the woman with the spoon in her glass, bemused, wondering where on earth this unexpected projectile could have come from. Eddie took an uncomfortable sip of his milkshake, just to have something to do.

Of course it was Richie who broke the silence.

He took a long, loud sip from his milkshake, swallowed, looked Eddie dead in the eye, and said in the most serious voice Eddie had ever heard him use:

“That’s not ideal.”

Without breaking eye contact, he took another sip.

And maybe it was the stoic look on his face, or the dry tone of his voice. Maybe it was the obvious statement he had made, or the way he had framed his words with such theatrical sips of his drink. Or maybe it was just the ridiculousness of the situation as a whole.

Either way. Eddie didn’t think he’d ever seen anything funnier. And suddenly, all of his nerves faded away and it was as if it were just he and Richie on the living room floor at three in the morning. His stomach untwisted. His breath came back. His brain stopped sprinting around in circles in full panic mode.

He laughed.

He laughed so hard that the milkshake he had been sipping shot out of his nose as a sticky, melted, strawberry scented goop. He instinctively tried to put his hands in front of his face, but this only served to get snot and strawberry ice cream all over his hands and sleeves (which was mildly disgusting). Naturally, this made Richie laugh so hard he sprayed his own milkshake out of his mouth and all over himself, the table, and Eddie. Somehow, instead of being horrified, Eddie only found this more hilarious.

In an instant, both of them were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes. Eddie knew he had a stupid laugh - full of gasps and wheezes and even coughing when he got laughing hard enough - but Richie’s loud snorting laugh was no better, and the sound of it only made Eddie laugh harder. Which made Richie laugh harder. Which made Eddie laugh harder. What a vicious cycle it was.

They knew they must look like idiots. They knew that everyone in the restaurant must be staring at them now. But they couldn’t stop laughing.

Not even when the manager politely asked them to leave.

 

***

 

“Left, left, left - _go fucking left_!”

“I know what I’m doing! Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m helping you!”

“You’re distracting me - shit - _fuck_!”

The machine gave a series of melancholy beeps as the yellow circle ran straight into the little red ghost. YOU LOSE flashed across the screen in blocky white letters. Eddie groaned.

“Man,” said Richie mildly. He was leaning over Eddie’s shoulder to watch him play. He could feel Eddie’s warmth through his jacket and he could smell his lavender shampoo and he tried to ignore the way it made his heart stutter. “You really suck at this game.”

Eddie tilted his head back to glare at him. “Shut up.” He had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the various shouts and laughs and beeps from the arcade. “I haven’t played _Pac Man_ since middle school, okay?”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“Oh, what, like you can do better?”

“Of course I can! You’re looking at the _Pac Man_ champ, baby.” He took a step back and gave a theatrical bow, grinning stupidly. “I held the high score at the local arcade for three years straight.”

Eddie regarded him skeptically. “Bullshit.”

Richie gasped loudly and clutched his chest. “You doubt me?” he exclaimed. “You doubt _me_? I’m wounded. Have I, Richard M. Tozier ever lied to you, Eddie J. Spaghetti? In all my life?”

“Okay, for one, my middle name starts with F, not J,” Eddie said. “Two, don’t call me Eddie Spaghetti. Three, you told me just yesterday that Mount Rushmore is a natural formation so fuck you.”

“I still can’t believe you bought it,” he snickered. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m a fucking _Pac Man_ master and you need to scoot your ass over so I can prove it.”

He didn’t give Eddie much chance to argue, ushering him to the side so he could take his place in front of the arcade machine. Eddie looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. It was a look Richie was quite familiar with. Stan had been giving him that same look every day for over a decade.

“Watch and learn, Spaghetti Head,” he grinned. Eddie rolled his eyes, but settled next to Richie’s left arm to watch.

It was clear within seconds that Eddie’s doubt had been catastrophically misplaced. Richie manoeuvred the game with almost professional ease, eating every dot and avoiding every ghost effortlessly. It wasn’t long before he doubled, and then tripled Eddie’s highest score, still without the slightest difficulty.

And just to show off, he talked the entire time.

“Did you know that the highest possible score in this game is 3,333,360 points?” he asked as he successfully destroyed a third flashing blue ghost in a row. “I used to try to reach it, but I would always get bored and quit after maybe half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” Eddie asked. Richie could hear the awe in his voice. He couldn’t help but feel a little self-satisfied. “Nonstop?”

“Yep.” He scooped a strawberry, narrowly avoiding the orange ghost. “I told you I’m good at this. I used to spend hours at the arcade back home.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “That’s really how you chose to spend your free time? Inside an arcade?”

“Beats spending it inside your mother.”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

After another ten minutes or so of continually racking up points, Richie was beginning to grow bored. It wasn’t a very riveting game after all. Once the machine gave the familiar series of congratulatory beeps that meant he had beaten the standing high score, he decided his point had been made. He stepped away from the game, grinning triumphantly at Eddie as PacMan died behind him.

“So?” he asked. He wiggled his eyebrows expectantly.

Eddie scoffed. “If you think I’m going to tell how great you are, you’re wrong.”

“I expected nothing less.” He stretched his arms above his head and adjusted his glasses. “So! What do you want to play next? Or rather, what do you want me to beat you at next, because the options are endless.”

“Go to hell.”

 

***

 

As it turned out, Richie hadn’t been exaggerating. He really _was_ good at every. Fucking. Game. He tripled Eddie’s highest scores in _Frogger_ and _Donkey Kong._ He utterly destroyed him in _Mortal Kombat_ . _Street Fighter_ was closer, but only marginally, and Eddie still suffered an embarrassing defeat. Eddie was surprisingly good at air hockey - probably because years of dodging bullies had worked wonders on his reaction time - and he came startlingly close to winning, but he missed the final save by a hair.

Eddie pointed accusingly as Richie came to meet him on his side of the table. “You definitely cheated.”

Richie laughed. “How can you cheat at air hockey?”

“You tell me - cheater.”

Richie pushed Eddie’s pointing arm down. “Right. You caught me. I set up boards inside my goal while you weren’t looking so that it would be impossible for you to score.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and looked away so Richie wouldn’t see how close he was to laughing. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted. My mother was right.”

There was a pause. “You told your mother about me?” Richie sounded quietly amazed and Eddie immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

In truth, over the course of several phone calls he had told his mother just about everything about Richie, aside from the smoking and the part about him being a drama student. He knew it was a bad idea to tell her, and she had reacted exactly as he thought she would (“Oh Eddie Bear, you really need to be careful who you make friends with; you know how much I worry with you being so far away; you can’t trust just anyone you know.”), but he couldn’t just _not_ tell her. She was his mother. He never had been good at lying to her; not even a lie of omission.

But that wasn’t something he could just _say_ to Richie. It was weird. Right?

“I mentioned you in passing,” he said, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Just to tell her what an idiot you are.”

Richie draped an arm across Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie’s heart rate instantly went up by ten speeds and he willed his breath to steady. “You flatter me,” he said. “Soon enough we’ll be having dinner with each other’s parents, don’t you think?”

Eddie was squished against Richie’s side. He could feel Richie’s voice reverberating in his chest and Richie’s breath in his hair and the weight of his arm around him and Richie was _so fucking warm what the fuck_ -

“ _No_.” His voice cracked. “You’re never meeting my mother.”

“Afraid she’ll like me more than you?”

Eddie snorted. “Afraid she’ll kick your ass for corrupting me, more like. And then make me feel guilty for abandoning her.”

“Nah,” said Richie easily. Eddie could practically feel his smile. “She’d love me. I’d dazzle her with my stunning looks and voice impressions and then use my stellar cooking skills to prove I’m worthy of her son.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. _Friendship_ , he told himself. _He meant he’s worthy of my friendship. Nothing more_. “You can cook?” he asked.

“Your skepticism is noted and, frankly, insulting,” said Richie. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook. I make the world’s greatest spaghetti - perfect for you, right Eddie Spa -”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Why not?” he asked, mock surprised. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Richie laughed loudly.

“I still don’t believe you’re a good cook,” Eddie said. It was true. Everything about Richie was clumsy and messy and haphazard. It was hard to picture him in a kitchen, making something good - or even edible.

“How _dare_ you?” Richie exclaimed, feigning outrage. “Number one, I’ve been to your apartment and I’ve seen your fridge. I know for a _fact_ you live off Kraft Dinner and instant noodles so you’re in no place to talk. And B, last time you doubted me I proved you _so very wrong_. Do you really want to challenge me on this?”

“Kraft Dinner is a completely valid meal,” Eddie argued, but his ears were burning. He couldn't deny that Richie was right. It wasn’t _his_ fault his mom treated him like a child and had never given him a chance to learn how to cook. “And I’ll believe you can cook when I see it firsthand.”

“Fine,” said Richie. “Come over.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

“Come to my apartment,” he repeated, as casual as anything. “I’ll make you dinner and prove you wrong and you’ll look like a big dumb idiot.”

Eddie thought his brain must have short circuited. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak. The only thing going through his mind was a blaring red alarm screaming _Richie’s apartment, Richie’s apartment, Richie’s apartment_. “I - tonight?” he managed to squeak.

“Yes tonight,” Richie laughed. “Unless you have other plans.”

Eddie’s heart decided to relocate to somewhere around his trachea. Whether the butterflies that had taken up flight in his stomach were from nerves or excitement he would never be sure; all he knew was that this had happened _really fast_ and he needed a _little more warning Jesus fuck_.

So he said the only thing his overheated brain could think to say.

“Fine.”

And then Richie smiled and Eddie’s already racing heart skipped a beat and he wondered if he was too young to have a heart attack.

“Perfect.” Richie started to walk, pulling Eddie - still tucked under his arm - with him. “Well Eds,” he said. “I hope you’re ready for the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said. It was a miracle his voice came out as normal as it did. “And get your arm off of me. I’m not walking with you like this.”

Richie stuck out his tongue petulantly, but removed his arm from Eddie’s shoulders. As they walked, side by side, to the door, Eddie told himself he didn’t miss its warmth.

He didn’t believe it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things! Are! Happening!  
> Also chapter title is from First Date by Blink-182  
> OH ALSO DID I MENTION WE HIT 100 PAGES HOW FUCKIN COOL IS THAT THANKS FOR STICKING AROUND FOR THIS LONG


	12. We Dance Best In The Kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this crying, somewhat tipsy, at almost two in the morning and you know what? That half is the better half. What the fuck.

Richie’s apartment was surprisingly clean. Eddie had thought, given his personality, that it would be as messy and cluttered as his own - probably even more so. However, the place was just about spotless. The counters were free of clutter, the blankets were folded on the couch, and even the stacks of records in the corner were neat and organized.

Richie had noticed him staring when they’d first come in, and he’d excitedly told Eddie all about them. He’d been collecting them for years and had nearly two hundred - all sorts of albums from all sorts of bands. Eddie could see The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Toto, Whitney Houston, The Everly Brothers, and countless more that he’d never even heard of. It was rather impressive. Richie had gone on to tell Eddie that he owned two record players - one for the living room and one for his bedroom - and according to him, one of them was always playing music. Sometimes he had both on at the same time, just loud enough that they could both be heard in either room, producing a cacophony of contrasting music. Richie claimed it improved his productivity. Eddie thought it would just give him a headache.

In the first few minutes of being in the apartment, Richie had reminded Eddie more than ever of an overexcited puppy. He pointed out every single object of interest and proudly told a story about each one. He was like a little kid. Eddie couldn’t decide whether it was more ridiculous or adorable. Or rather, that was what he told himself. He knew it really was adorable.

That had been half an hour ago.

“I’m not _saying_ they don’t exist,” Eddie was saying now. He was sitting on Richie’s kitchen counter, swinging his feet to the beat of Toto’s _Waiting For Your Love_ . Richie had chosen this album when they had first come in - _it’s a fucking masterpiece_ , he had insisted.. “I’m sure they do. But why would they come to Earth, build some big stone triangles, and then fuck off back to whatever planet they came from? It doesn’t make sense.”

“How should I know why?” Richie retorted. “We don’t know their agenda. All we know is that there’s no way humans in that time period could have built the pyramids without extraterrestrial help.”

“They had slaves and pulleys! They could have done anything!”

Richie just shook his head and turned to stirring the vegetables. Across the room, the song faded out into record static; after a moment, the next one began. Richie’s face split into a grin.

“What?” Eddie asked cautiously. That smile almost always meant he was going to do something stupid.

“This song,” said Richie. He lowered the heat on the stove and dropped his spatula on the counter in favour of rushing to the record player and turning up the volume. “It’s my favourite,” he shouted.

“We’ll get a noise complaint,” Eddie warned as the music filled the room, but Richie just grinned and turned it louder. Eddie sighed. _On his own head be it_.

Richie’s smile was more than devious as the music began to pick up and he made his way back to where Eddie was sitting. He was swaying his hips from side to side in what Eddie thought might have been an attempt at dancing. He held out his hands invitingly as he came nearer.

“No,” said Eddie firmly, gripping the edge of the counter. “I don’t dance.”

Richie nodded and wiggled his eyebrows as if to say _yes you do_. He was right in front of Eddie now, practically standing between his legs. Richie took hold of both of his wrists, gently prying his hands from the counter and swaying them back and forth to the beat of the song. Eddie shook his head, blushing fiercely.

“I’m not dancing with you.” Even this close, he had to shout to be heard over the music.

“Then just dance beside me.”

“No!”

Richie beamed as he started to sing along.

 

“ _I hear the drums echoing tonight_

_But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation_.”

_She's coming in, 12:30 flight_

_The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation_.”

 

Eddie had to laugh. His voice was _awful_. It was truly a testament to the unfairness of life that someone who loved music so much could be so tone deaf.

“You’re so bad at singing,” he yelled. He was swaying to the music, he noticed with some dissatisfaction. _Not_ dancing. Just swaying. Swaying was fine.

Richie laughed. “I know! Sing with me!”

“No way!”

“Please?”

“No!” He _did_ allow Richie to tug him off the counter, and he pointedly ignored the excited little flip of his stomach. Richie did a little twirl and grabbed the spatula from where he’d left it, singing into it as if it were a microphone.

  


“ _He turned to me as if to say, ‘Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you!_ ’”

  


In the few beats before the chorus, he held his makeshift microphone out to Eddie and waggled his eyebrows hopefully. Eddie started to shake his head, paused at the disappointed look on Richie’s face. He really was too much like a goddamn puppy. Eddie sighed, pushed the spatula away, and sang.

  


“ _It's gonna take a lot to take me away from you_

_There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_

_I bless the rains down in Africa_

_Gonna take some time to do the things we never had_.”

  
  


As the song went on, Eddie began to feel less and less self conscious. He allowed Richie to twirl him and to dip him and spin him outwards and back into his chest, and he only paused a second with Richie’s arm around him. At the second chorus, he accepted the ladle microphone Richie held out to him and he sang into it with as much passion and vigour as Bobby Kimball himself. He slid across the kitchen tiles in his socked feet and Richie played the air guitar and neither realised quite how close together they were when they both spun dramatically. They collided. Eddie crashed hard into the counter, and Richie crashed hard into him, and then somehow they were both hitting the ground in a pile of messy limbs.

Eddie was laughing too hard to mind the awkward bend of his shoulder or the bruise he could already feel forming on his hip. He was half on the floor, half on Richie, and he could feel the other’s chest heaving with laughter underneath him. When he lifted his head to look at Richie, Eddie’s breath caught in his throat.

Their faces were so close together. He could feel Richie’s breath on his cheek; smell the faint scent of the bubblegum he’d been chewing all day. Richie’s eyes were shut and his nose was crinkled with mirth and his hair was _everywhere_ and Eddie was sure that a thousand fucking sunsets could never match this beauty.

Richie’s glasses had been knocked crooked in the fall. Before he could stop himself, Eddie reached out a hand to push them back into place. His knuckles brushed lightly against against Richie’s cheek and Richie stopped laughing. Eddie’s face flamed.

“Sorry,” he whispered, moving to retract his hand. Richie caught his wrist.

“Don’t be,” he replied.

Eddie couldn’t tell whose heart it was he could feel beating as fast as a hummingbird’s against his chest; he was pressed so close to Richie he thought maybe it was both of their hearts. Beating together. Beating as one. Two sets of eyes were drawn to joined hands as Richie’s fingers slid slowly up Eddie’s wrist. They watched, transfixed, as he trailed the calloused pads of his fingers along the lines of Eddie’s palm.

“Your lifeline is really short,” Richie whispered.

“I don’t believe in those things.”

“Me neither.”

The song came to an end. The room was filled with the record player’s steady, rhythmic static. Eddie was acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing, mingling with Richie’s in the near silence.

Their eyes met. He was so _close_. It occurred to Eddie that he could kiss Richie, if he wanted. It would be so easy. He could just lean in… just a bit forward… he could tilt his head the tiniest bit… close his eyes… he could… he could… he could -

He sat up hastily, bashing his head against the bottom of the counter in the process. “ _Fuck_ ,” he yelped, clutching his head. “ _Ow_.”

“Shit -” Richie scrambled into a sitting position. “Are you okay?”

Eddie brushed him off. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_.”

For a long moment they simply sat there, on the cold kitchen tiles, looking anywhere but at each other. Eddie’s heart was beating so hard and so fast that he worried he might cough it up. All he could think was _he knows_ . There was no way Richie hadn’t realised Eddie’s feelings after that. He knew, and he was disgusted, and he was probably just trying to figure out the best way to tell Eddie to get the fuck out of his life, and _that_ was why he was being so quiet and _fuck_ why wouldn’t he just _say something_.

The only sound was that of the record player static. Then -

“So I should get back to cooking.” Richie was staring at the floor. “Before it burns any more than it probably already is.”

“Right,” said Eddie. He felt like he was going to throw up. “Yes.”

Eddie waited for the rest of it. He waited for the _I think you should leave_ , or the _I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can be friends anymore_ , or even just the _you know I’m straight, right_?

Richie said none of those things. Instead, what he said was: “Do you want to watch a movie afterwards?”

Eddie was too surprised to feel relieved. _That’s all?_ “S-sure.”

They sat for another moment, then both stood up a little too hastily. After some awkward shuffling around, Richie resumed his place at the stove and Eddie went to sit uncomfortably on the couch. He was sure his face was redder than it had ever been.

Had he thought to look, he would have known that Richie’s was too.

 

***

 

The spaghetti didn’t turn out as bad as it could have, all things considered. The vegetables were a little overcooked, but other than that it was perfectly fine. Eddie didn’t even seem to mind the burnt sauce - he didn’t say as much, but Richie could tell from the way his eyes widened in surprise that he enjoyed it.

They ate their pasta in relative silence in Richie’s bedroom, since that was where his television and VCR were. _The Outsiders_ was the movie they had chosen. Or rather, Richie had chosen it and given Eddie no say in the matter because Eddie had never seen it and was thus “uncultured” and “on the wrong side of history”.

“I can’t _believe_ you don’t at least know this scene.” Richie pointed his fork at the screen as Ponyboy and Johnny lay looking at the stars. “What’s it like under that rock of yours?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. They were side by side on Richie’s bed, a safe distance and a bowl of popcorn between them. They had been giving each other a wide berth since the Kitchen Incident, as Richie was referring to it in his mind.

He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened back there. One minute they had been laughing and the next thing Richie knew they had been holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes like they were in a fucking romance novel. For a minute there it had almost seemed like Eddie was about to kiss him, and Richie’s heart had sped up excitedly and he had almost started to lean towards Eddie to close the distance -

And then Eddie had sprung away like he’d been burned, and had been keeping Richie at arm’s length ever since.

Richie hated it. Even though barely an hour had passed, he had had enough of this stupid awkwardness between them. He just wanted to be near Eddie again - to sit so close to him their legs brushed together; to lean on his shoulder when he got tired of sitting up straight; to grab Eddie’s hand and play with his fingers and act like the stupid Kitchen Incident had never happened.

“You know how my mom is,” Eddie said. “She didn’t let me watch anything she didn’t approve of, and that basically consisted of anything Catholic and/or educational.”

“ _The Outsiders_ is extremely educational,” Richie argued. “It teaches _very_ important lessons about friendship and prejudice and whatever the fuck else.”

“Right,” said Eddie drily. “I’m sure she would agree wholeheartedly.”

“Of course she would. I’m right.”

Eddie snorted and fell silent, turning his attention back to the screen.

Richie glanced over at him periodically as the movie wore on. He wondered whether it would be weird if he were to inch just a bit closer to him. He could always claim he couldn’t reach the popcorn properly if Eddie said anything. He shifted subtly nearer. Eddie gave him a glance, but said nothing. So Richie scooted closer. No reaction. One more inch. He parted his legs so that his shin rested flush against Eddie’s. Eddie’s attention remained fixed on the movie.

He continued in this pattern - shifting closer, checking for a reaction, shifting again - until the only space that remained between them was occupied by the popcorn bowl. Richie was pondering how he could move it out of the way without being obvious when Eddie finally sighed.

“You know,” he said exasperatedly, grabbing the bowl and shoving it onto Richie’s lap. “If you want to sit closer to me you could just say so.”

Richie grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Of course I noticed,” he snorted. “You’re probably the least subtle person I know. Now are you going to scoot over here or not?”

Richie scooted.

 

***

 

Eddie didn’t know why he was feeling so comfortable. Maybe it was because Richie was acting like nothing had happened. And maybe nothing _had_ happened - maybe Richie hadn’t noticed how close Eddie had been to kissing him, or how badly he’d wanted to. Or maybe he _had_ noticed, but it hadn’t bothered him. Or maybe it did bother him and he was just ignoring it in the hopes that Eddie would get the hint that there was no way anything would ever happen between them.

Maybe he was just thinking too much about nothing at all.

 

***

 

He had thought it might be awkward, given what had happened earlier, but it was just the same as usual. There was no tension in Eddie’s body as Richie leaned on his shoulder. No uncomfortable shuffling when he put his left leg over Eddie’s right. No squirming when he slid his arm around Eddie’s back.

By the time Dally had made it to the church, Eddie was nestled comfortably against Richie’s chest and Richie’s chin was on the top of Eddie’s head and Richie didn’t think he’d ever felt so warm and comfortable and _perfect_.

 

***

 

It just felt right.

 

***

 

He wondered if Eddie felt the same.

 

***

 

He wondered if Richie felt the same.

 

***

 

And then Johnny died.

Eddie’s shoulders were shaking with silent sobs and tears were streaming down Richie’s face because no matter how many times he watched this movie it would still make him cry every damn time. He pulled Eddie closer against him and Eddie pressed his face against Richie’s chest and Richie pretended not to notice that he was wiping his tears on his sweater.

 

***

 

“ _As I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind…_ ”

Credits rolled. Tired eyes, still red with tears, fell shut.

 

***

 

“Eds?”

“Mmph.”

“You still with me?”

“Mmhmm.” A t-shirt rustling. “Whatime’s’it?”

“Dunno. Late.”

“...”

“Eddie?”

“...”

“Did you fall asleep?”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“...”

“Goodnight, Spaghetti Head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, what was supposed to be one chapter has become three. And it's not even Valentine's Day anymore.  
> Also I relate a lot to Richie in this chapter because a) Africa is (unironically) my favourite song; b) I cry every time I watch the outsiders; c) im in love with eddie kaspbrak; and d) aliens built the pyramids.  
> (Chapter title is from In Dreams I Dance With You by Of Montreal)
> 
> Edit: ((spoiler alert about the novel)) hEY DID ANYONE GET MY SUBTLE NOD TO HOW EDDIE DIES TRAGICALLY IN THE SEWERS AT A YOUNG AGE BC HIS SHORT LIFE LINE HAHAHAHAAH dont worry i hate me too


	13. Pompeii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all.  
> Guys.  
> Pals.  
> My dudes.  
> I'm really proud of this one. None of what happened was in my original plan, but... I'm REALLY happy with it

Warmth. An arm across his chest and a leg over his waist. Slow breathing against the crook of his neck. A heavy blanket over him, one he was sure hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep. It didn’t matter. It was there now.

And so was he.

 

***

 

Watery sunlight. A ticking clock. The muted sound of snoring. There was hair in his face - not his own. It was soft. It smelled of bergamot and old cigarettes. He blinked, and his eyes stayed closed.

 

***

 

Groggy voices. Thick and scratchy.

“You awake?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

 

***

 

Eddie’s eyes were sandy when he finally opened them good and proper. He blinked a couple of times, rubbed them, made a tiny involuntary squeak as he stretched. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow on the entirety of the room. Eddie wondered dimly what time it was.

Richie’s bedroom looked different in the sunlight. Eddie hadn’t thought much of it last night, having been too absorbed in his thoughts and in the movie to notice anything else, but now he could get a proper look around. The room screamed “Richie”. Posters stared down at him from every angle, barely a square inch of grey paint visible under the faces of Captain Kirk, Kurt Cobain, John Lennon, Princess Leia, and countless others, most of which Eddie had never seen before. Even the ceiling bore prints of men with guitars or light sabers. He could see Richie’s second record player on the desk in the corner, next to four or five records - they must have been his favourites - and several notebooks thrown haphazardly on top of one another. Pens and pencils were scattered on the desk and there was a pile of crumpled paper in and around the wastebasket.

It was much messier in here than the rest of the apartment - much more like Eddie had pictured. Clothes and towels were strewn about the floor. A single shoe sat forlornly at the foot of the bed, laces a tangled heap on the side, and a boater hat hung crookedly off the bedpost. It seemed Richie exhausted all of his cleaning energy in keeping the rest of the place spotless. Here, he didn’t bother to do so much as tidy up.

A warm weight shifted beside him and he turned his head to look. Richie was fast asleep, laying on his stomach with his face turned toward Eddie. His curly hair, in absolute disarray, looked like black ink spilt over the pillow. He had taken his glasses off at some point during the night, and Eddie marvelled at how much smaller his eyes looked without them. He could clearly see the distinct scar on his eyebrow, and his eyes were drawn down to Richie’s crooked nose. 

_ “Broke my nose  _ and _ my glasses. I still have the scar, look.” _

It seemed like so long ago they had sat in that cafe, bearing their hearts and laughing as the sun rose. It was hard to believe it had been only months since then. To think, three short months ago Eddie had never heard Richie’s name - and now Richie had become one of his favourite people in the world. He felt like he’d known him forever.  He felt at ease with him, more so than he did with anybody else - maybe even Bill, though that thought made Eddie’s stomach twist with guilt. But there was just something  _ about _ Richie, something that made Eddie feel like he was floating. Like everything was okay. Like he had finally found somewhere he really, truly belonged.

Maybe it was the way they bickered and teased each other as if it was something they’d done all their lives. Maybe it was how he always looked so shocked when Eddie laughed at his dumb jokes, or maybe it was his  _ own _ laugh, the one that rang out like music and never failed to make Eddie smile. Maybe it was because he was so relaxed, and Eddie was so uptight. They balanced each other out. They brought out the best in each other.

Or maybe it was just his smile. His beautiful, easy smile that was never far from his lips. Eddie loved that smile. 

Or maybe he just loved Richie.

Outside, a cloud passed in front of the sun. Inside, shadows danced across Richie’s face. His nose wrinkled, relaxed. Eyelids twitched and lashes fluttered and sleepy brown eyes met Eddie’s in the pale sunlight. Brown and gold and boundless. Unobscured by his glasses, the sun made Richie’s eyes  _ glow _ . They sparkled and danced and every second that passed seemed to introduce a million new colours. Eddie wondered, if he looked long enough, could he see them all?

A century might have passed. Eddie didn’t care. He could look into those angel eyes forever. 

And then those angel eyes were smiling. 

“Hi.” Richie’s voice was thick and raspy, as if he hadn’t used it in years.

“Hi.” Eddie’s was no different.

Richie shifted just so, and Eddie was suddenly very aware of the place where Richie’s left leg was pressed against his right. “How long were you staring at me?” Richie asked, a teasing lilt to his sandy voice.

His face flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He wondered if Richie could hear the hitch in his voice. He wondered if Richie could tell he was lying.

 

***

 

(He could.)

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Even so, he moved subtly closer. His knee slid upwards against Eddie’s thigh, and he was sure he only imagined the way Eddie’s breath quickened.

 

***

 

(He didn’t.) 

 

***

 

He must have. So he wasn’t entirely certain why he did what he did next.

Maybe it was because Eddie didn’t move away. Maybe it was because the sun was soft and the bed was warm and Richie could hear the distant sound of cars driving by and he felt so lovely, and Eddie looked so lovely, and everything was just so  _ lovely _ . Either way, Richie moved once more. And this time his knee came up higher and this time Eddie’s breath  _ definitely _ hitched and this time Richie’s eyes flickered up to Eddie’s. 

Their gazes locked for a nanosecond. Or maybe it was an eternity. Richie didn’t know, and he didn’t much care because suddenly his eyes darted to Eddie’s lips and Eddie was moving, turning onto his side and angling his hips so that Richie’s leg slotted between his own, and time lost its meaning. Richie was aware of the growing tightness in the jeans he hadn’t taken off last night. The logical part of his mind knew he shouldn’t do this and he was going to regret this and it was a terrible,  _ terrible _ idea and there was no way their friendship could survive this - but the logical part of his mind had been silenced the instant Eddie had let out that stuttering breath.

He shifted so that he was lying on his side, facing Eddie, and their chests were mere inches apart. His breath stirred Eddie’s hair. It had somehow avoided becoming tangled in his sleep and it looked so smooth, so soft, so  _ perfect _ , practically glowing in this light. Richie wanted to touch it. So he did. Silky strands slid between his fingers, just behind Eddie’s ear, and then their hips were pressed together and Eddie’s leg was so close -  _ so close _ \- to Richie’s crotch. His mind had gone foggy. All he wanted to do was grind down against him, to feel that  _ pressure _ , but neither of them were moving and Richie didn’t know if that was alright. He didn’t know  _ what  _ was alright. He didn’t know anything anymore, except that they had left platonic cuddling territory miles behind and he couldn’t see any road signs and he hadn’t the slightest clue where they were going, but Eddie’s hand was on his back, sliding lower, lower, lower, fingers brushing the hem of his t-shirt - 

Somewhere outside, a young child screamed. That was all it took to break the spell. All it took to send Richie reeling back to his senses and away from Eddie at a dizzying speed. He scooted backwards so far and so fast he nearly fell of the bed, and Eddie flung himself back against the headboard to put as much space between them as he could. His chest was rising and falling rapidly and his wide, shocked eyes were panic-stricken. Richie felt about the same as Eddie looked. 

Richie cast his eyes down to his hands. He clasped them tightly together to stop their shaking. Eddie was quiet. For once, so was Richie. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how he could explain this away, how he could make this any less awkward. All he could think was fuck _. Fuck.  _

Time, which had disappeared mere moments before, came crashing down around them and the seconds seemed to stretch on for hours. 

Finally, Eddie broke the silence. “I should probably go.” His voice was weak, pitched an octave higher than normal.

“Yeah,” Richie squeaked. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yeah - you… uh… yeah.”

Eddie was already on his feet. “I’ll - um - I’ll see you.”

Richie couldn’t even watch him leave, too mortified to look up from his trembling hands. As soon as he heard the front door close, he flopped onto his back with a groan and put his hands over his burning face.

At least he’d been right about one thing - that was a  _ terrible fucking idea _ .

 

***

 

Eddie didn’t even make it to the couch. He had barely closed his apartment door behind him when he collapsed right there on the floor, his hand still on the doorknob. He was surprised he had even made it this far - surprised he had managed to keep his breathing almost normal while in Richie’s room. Now, however, he felt like his throat was closing up. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t -  _ fuck _ , he couldn’t  _ think _ , not about anything but the way Richie had practically leapt away from him. He’d looked so horrified, as if Eddie had  _ burned _ him, and Eddie should have known that Richie hadn’t meant anything by the way he’d looked at him. He should have known not to try anything, he should have  _ known _ not to be  _ stupid _ , and now Richie would hate him and there was nothing he could do to make it better and shit. Shit.  _ Shit. _

Without getting to his feet - he doubted his legs would support him if he tried - he reached blindly for the inhaler he kept on the table next to the door, his feelings of panic growing worse and worse with every passing second. When his fingers finally brushed the cool plastic, his hands were shaking so badly could barely get it to his mouth. His breath was so short his vision was beginning to blur.  _ Shit _ . 

He took three puffs from the inhaler and dropped it on the floor, too frazzled to worry about the germs it must be accumulating. He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate; he brought his knees to his chest and covered his mouth with both hands. Tears had begun to form in his eyes. He wiped them on the leg of his jeans and his stomach flipped unpleasantly when he realised they still smelled like Richie. 

Richie, who definitely knew about Eddie’s feelings for him by now. And, if the look on his face had been anything to judge by, was completely horrified by it. Eddie dug his fingers hard into his leg.

What had he done?

 

***

 

_ Ring… ring… ring…  _

“ _ Hello _ ?”

“Bev?”

“ _ Richie? Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying. _ ”

“I fucked up.”

“ _... How bad? _ ”

“Bad.”

“ _ Eddie? _ ”

“... Yeah. You have any weed?”

“ _ Of course. I’ll be over in ten. _ ”

“You’re the best.”

“ _ I know. I love you. _ ”

“I love you too.”

_ Click. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm sorry.


	14. Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ryan bergara voice* we're back baby
> 
> let it be known this is not proof read because i just really want it out there and if i edit it will take at least another week so it's not my proudest chapter but it's tiME TO MOVE ON OKAY THIS CHAPTER NEEDS TO BE WRITTEN I HAVE SO MUCH OF THE NEXT FEW CHAPTERS DONE ALREADY AND I NEED TO GET THERE

Often in life, it all comes down to a moment. Just one moment of loneliness to slide a hastily scrawled note under a door. One moment of desperate courage to sprint down a staircase and not miss a chance. One moment to take a hand under the stars. One moment to whisper a secret. One moment to smile, one moment to fall, one moment for a heart to skip a beat. 

One moment to bring it all crashing down.

And in just one moment, he was alone again. He wondered, if he had the choice, which of those moments would he do over?

***

 

_ One month later. _

It was a quarter to one. As usual, Richie Tozier was wide awake. As usual, he was alone. He was walking in the middle of a dimly lit road, cigarette between his teeth and hands in his pockets. His footsteps were eerily loud in the quiet - he still wasn’t quite used to hearing them all alone.

He hadn’t seen Eddie since that night. Not for lack of trying, of course. He’d knocked on Eddie’s door every day for the first week, asking him to talk, to come walking with him, to  _ please just open the door _ . There was never any reply. Richie supposed he had never really expected there to be, but he still felt his heart break a little more each time he turned away from that door. 

He’d taken instead to walking alone again. Eddie was back to being an empty silhouette in a faraway window. But Richie didn’t give up. Every night, he would stand under the streetlight in view of Eddie’s window. He would wave. And he would wait. Just like he had so many months ago.

Eddie never came out. After a while, Richie stopped hoping he would.

But he never stopped waiting.

***

 

_ “He hates me.” _

_ “I’m sure he doesn't.” _

_ “You’re wrong this time, Bill. You didn’t see the look on his face. It was like I’d burned him. Like he’d never been so disgusted in his life…” _

 

***

 

It was three in the morning, and Eddie had his knees to his chest. He was staring out the window. Staring where Richie had disappeared so many hours ago, and wondering when he would finally come back.

He couldn’t go to see Richie. He just couldn’t. Because he knew exactly how it would go - Richie would tell him in person just how badly Eddie had fucked it all up. He would tell him that he’d gone too far, that it was getting out of hand, that Richie was straight and would never  _ ever  _ like him that way. He would tell him he was sorry, but that he couldn’t be around someone like Eddie, who couldn’t even control his stupid crush on his obviously uninterested friend. He would tell him that there was nothing else to be done, and that he simply couldn’t see him anymore.

Eddie knew this. He knew and he understood and he wouldn’t try to change Richie’s mind. It was fine. It was  _ fine _ .

He just… wasn’t ready to hear it yet. He needed some more time to accept it, to move on, to come to terms with losing one of his closest friends. He couldn't deal with it. Not right now.

So he didn’t go to see Richie. He didn’t open the door when he knocked. He didn’t even look at him the rare times he saw him on campus. It was better this way. Better to not see him of his own volition rather than to look Richie in the eye and listen to him kick Eddie out of his life for good. At least this way, Eddie could almost pretend it didn’t bother him.

So, he turned his face away so Richie wouldn’t recognize him outside. He sat on the floor next to the door and tried to cry as quietly as he could, listening to Richie beg him to open it. He sat in his seat by the window, legs pulled close to his chest and chin resting on his knees, and stared down at the street below. He listened carefully for the sounds he knew so well: door opening. Door closing. Keys jingling. Lock clicking. Footsteps. Richie would appear. He would stop under the light. He would wave. Eddie wouldn’t wave back. And then, Richie would wait, and Eddie would wait, and neither knew who would be the first to give in.

He knew it was impossible, but Eddie always felt like they made eye contact in those moments. Despite the distance, despite the dark, despite the fact that they were mere shadowy figures to one another - he couldn’t help but feel that he was looking straight into Richie’s eyes, and that Richie was looking into his. But the moment always ended. Richie always turned his back, and Eddie always sank deeper into his seat.

He could never bring himself to not watch Richie walk away. It was his punishment to himself, he supposed. His punishment for breaking his own heart: breaking it a little bit more, piece by piece, every single night. 

Soon there would be nothing left to break.

 

***

 

_ “I blew it, Bev.” _

_ They’re in her car, parked safely in her dorm’s underground parkade. Beverly passes the joint back to Richie. _

_ “You didn’t,” she tells him as he inhales. “You made a move, and you don’t think he was into it. It’s not the end of the world.” _

_ “What do you mean I don’t  _ think _ he was into it?” he demands around a mouthful of smoke. “I  _ know _ he wasn’t. He practically ran out of there.” _

_ “Okay fine,” she rolls her eyes. “He  _ definitely wasn’t _ into it. So talk to him. Tell him you’re sorry, that it won’t happen again, that you hope the two of you can still be friends, blah blah blah. He’ll get over it. You’ll get over. And the two of you can live happily ever after.” _

_ “As friends,” Richie is quick to add. _

_ “Right.” She plucks to joint from his fingers. “As totally oblivious friends.” _

_ Richie isn’t sure which fills the car better - the smoke, or her laughter. _

 

***

 

It was two in the morning, and Richie was waiting.

He had stopped counting the days since last he’d slept. Three, four, five - they tended to blur together. They all became one jumbled mess of late nights and foggy windows. The days were even harder. He walked around in a daze, head pounding and eyes glazed over, barely registering any of the sights and sounds from his surrounding. Twice he’d nearly walked into oncoming traffic. Three times he’d come close to falling down his apartment building’s staircase.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had it this bad, but he thought it must have been before he met Eddie. Eddie seemed to make everything better, nicer, easier. Richie had gotten so used to falling asleep to the sound of Eddie’s breathing that now, sleep seemed as far away as the moon itself, mocking him from her place in the cosmos. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Eddie’s face from the last time he’d seen him - shocked, hurt, confused, afraid - and he was consumed with guilt. 

He just wanted to sleep again, with Eddie close beside him. He wanted to fix things. To walk with Eddie under the stars, to tease him mercilessly, to see his perfect smile. 

He wondered if Eddie was sleeping any more than he was. He hoped so.

 

Richie checked his watch. It had been fifteen minutes. Eddie wasn’t coming. With a defeated sigh, he turned his back: on the window, on the building, on Eddie.

 

***

 

Eddie watched yet another piece of his heart walk away with him. 

 

***

 

Not for the first time. 

Not for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *is gone for a million years* *comes back with a ridiculously short chapter of mediocre angst*
> 
> on the bright side the weather where i live is finally starting to resemble april weather rather than mid december weather and my seasonal depression is Slowly Leaving Me, which! means! more! writing! It's Coming Bois
> 
> (also unrelated to literally anything but are any of yall into got7 because i need to someone to Scream about them with and to share memes and excitement. my friends are all getting sick to death of me spamming the groupchat with random kpop boys they dont care about. please save me.)


	15. From Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!  
>  hey uh ryleigh this chapter is lowkey dedicated to you and you'll see why. thanks for being my muse and my number one hype man and for helping me when i'm stuck

“You c-c-can’t keep avoiding him forever,” Bill told Eddie from across the table. The two were seated at their usual table at The Golden Spoon Diner, sharing desert. They had spent the last half hour on small talk, dancing around anything more important than how much revision they had to do with finals just around the corner. They were doing a pretty good job of pretending they weren’t both perfectly aware of the shadow the proverbial elephant cast over their table, but apparently Bill had had enough.

Eddie jabbed his fork petulantly into his pie. “Watch me.”

Bill sighed. “You’re neighbours. And  _ friends _ . How l-long are you going to let this keep dragging on?”

Eddie said nothing.

“Have you even t-talked to him yet?”

He took a bite of pie to avoid answering. Unphased, Bill waited for him to finish. 

“No,” Eddie mumbled finally.

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seriously? How do you expect to g-get anywhere if you d-d-don’t at least  _ talk _ to the guy?”

Tears stung the backs of Eddie’s eyes. He shook his head numbly, not trusting himself to speak. Bill just didn’t understand. He couldn’t talk to Richie. He just  _ couldn’t _ . Just the thought of it - the thought of even being in the same  _ space  _ as Richie, let alone sharing words with him - was enough to make his heart pick up speed and the strength drain from his legs.

Bill’s expression softened. “I know it’s scary,” he said gently. “B-but you need to figure this out. I’m worried about you. You’ve been so s-sad recently, and I know you’ve ba-barely been sl-s-sleeping. I hate seeing you like this.”

Eddie nodded wordlessly. His eyes were glued to his hands, as if by staring hard enough he could make them stop trembling. He was about to withdraw them, to tuck them under his thighs and  _ make _ their shaking stop, when Bill’s hand came to rest gently on top of Eddie’s own.

“Talk to him,” he said. “I can g-guarantee it won’t be as bad as y-y-you’re expecting.”

Eddie found his voice. “How do you  _ know _ ?” he croaked.

Bill smiled. “Because it n-never is. Trust me. For all you know, he c-could be sitting with one of his friends having this exact same conversation.”

 

***

 

Somehow, Stan’s couch was more comfortable if it was sat on upside down. Richie thought it must have something to do with the cushions being worn in, and if Stan  _ really _ wanted him to “Sit properly, Richie, your feet are in my face”, he should just invest in new couch cushions. Or a new couch. Richie had said as much, several times, but all it had gotten him thus far were multiple eye rolls and a couple of pillows to the face. 

“The couch is fine,” Stan would tell him. “It’s you I need to replace.”

And yet, here they both were: thoroughly unreplaced.

Richie was upside down now, his socked feet dangerously close to Stan’s nose and his hair grazing the carpet. “- and I just don’t know what to do,” he was saying. “I hate not seeing him. It’s driving me crazy.”

“How many times are we going to have this conversation?” Stan pushed Richie’s feet away by the ankles. “Your feet stink.”

“I don’t know. Until I stop feeling like shit?” He moved his feet right back to their original position, ignoring Stan’s last comment.

Stan sighed. “You already know the solution to that.”

“I know.”

“I’ve told you at least thirteen times.”

“I know.”

“If you would just  _ talk _ to him -”

“I  _ know _ , Stanley,” Richie groaned. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that? He won’t listen to me.” 

“That never stops you from talking to me.”

“This is different. He’s avoiding me like the plague.” Every time he said that it sounded more flimsy of an excuse. It was  _ true _ \- Eddie hadn’t been within ten meters of Richie since the Incident. One time, Richie had come out of his apartment in time to see Eddie at the end of the hall, arms full of grocery bags. Before Richie could so much as lift an arm in greeting, Eddie had turned on his heel and practically sprinted away, as if Richie were some kind of disease bomb about to explode and rain bacteria down all over him.

But it wasn’t the  _ whole _ truth. Stan was right when he said Richie didn’t let little things like a lack of attention stop him from saying what he needed to say. He did, however, let bigger things stop him - things like fear. Fear of being rejected, abandoned, shunned. He was afraid that Eddie  _ would _ listen to him, and would still want nothing to do with him afterward. He was afraid of losing Eddie for good.

Most of all, Richie was afraid that Eddie would tell him the sudden iciness between them had nothing to do with the Incident. He was terrified that Eddie had finally had enough of his loud, obnoxious demeanor, and was keeping his distance for that reason alone.

_ “I can’t put up with you anymore,” _ Eddie would say.  _ “Go find somebody else to annoy. _ ”

That would break Richie. He couldn’t face that reality, no matter how many sleepless, lonely nights the alternative brought him.

But he couldn’t just  _ say _ that.

“But he won’t even open the  _ door _ ,” he complained instead.

“Again, since when has that stopped you?” Stan grabbed his ankles again, pinning them to the couch this time. “Must I recount to you all the times you’ve tried to talk to me from a separate room?”

Richie squirmed, but Stan’s grip was firm and Richie’s sleep-deprived body was weak. A four year old could probably have beaten him up, the state he was in. The best he could do was wriggle one foot out of his grasp, and promptly get it stuck under his own right leg.

“No,” he wheezed in response to Stan’s question.

“Good,” Stan huffed. He relinquished his hold on Richie’s ankle. “Next time you talk to me about Eddie, it had better be to tell me that you guys made up. It’s not like you to avoid shit like this. I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

Richie sighed. “That makes two of us.”

“And take a nap; you’re starting to look like a plague victim. I think the circles under your eyes are darker than your hair.”

The concern in his voice was carefully masked by a layer of annoyance, but to Richie, it was impossible to mistake. He gave a tiny smile. “I think the look suits me.”

Stan didn’t grace that with a response. Richie let his exhausted eyes close.

 

***

 

Eddie didn’t dream. It was hard to dream when he was never asleep.

Whenever he  _ did  _ manage to fall asleep, it was restless. There was a constant itch in the back of his brain, waiting for the tiniest disturbance to tear him back to the land of the waking. He never slept deeply enough for dreams. 

He used to. With Richie. When he spent time with Richie, he just felt  _ better _ . Safer. He could sleep - never as much as “normal” people; never quite a healthy amount, but  _ more. _ More than this. And he’d slept better, too, knowing Richie was beside him. It was as if Richie could silence with his mere presence all the noises that kept Eddie awake at night. He melted Eddie’s anxiety, calmed his racing thoughts.

Richie didn’t cure him. He didn’t magically solve all of Eddie’s issues. But he made them easier to deal with. Richie healed him, even just a little bit.

Eddie supposed that was just one more thing to miss about him.

 

***

 

Richie didn’t know what time it was. Late. He’d been walking around for what must have been hours, and he was chilled to the bone - though the bitter algidity of winter had finally started to let up, summer was a long way off and the nights were still quite brisk.

He didn’t hesitate in front of Eddie’s door, as he had countless times before. He was frozen, and he was exhausted, and there was no  _ point _ , anyway. Eddie wouldn’t answer. Why bother? 

 

_ “Since when has that stopped you?” _

 

All Richie wanted right now was to collapse into bed, buried under a million blankets, and pray for just one hour of sleep.

He wrested his key from his pocket and tried to fit it into the lock. Unfortunately, the cold had stiffened his hands, thus making his fingers about as useful as frozen sausages. After some pathetic fumbling, his grip abandoned him and the key fell to the carpeted floor with a muted thud.

 

_ “It’s not like you to avoid shit.” _

 

He sighed with inordinate disappointment. It  _ really _ wasn’t his night. Or his week. Or his month, to be perfectly honest.

He bent to pick up the key. Halfway down, he changed his mind and decided he would rather just sit for a while than to crouch and stand back up. So, he sat. He picked up his key and shuffled around until he was comfortable, with his legs stretched in front of him and his back to his door.

 

_ “Talk to him.” _

 

He was facing Eddie’s door. The little bronze number 307 shined in the flickering fluorescent light, mocking Richie with its immaculacy. It seemed so long ago that Richie had had no idea of what lay just on the other side of that door. No idea who Eddie was, or just how closely their lives would intertwine.

He wondered how much would be different had he never slid that note under that door. He wouldn’t be sitting here, for one. He wouldn’t have spent the last month sleeping less than he had in years; crying more than he had in years; staring at the ceiling and wishing, wishing, wishing he could take back one single moment. 

He would never have known Eddie’s smile. He would never have memorized the sound of his laugh, or the way his eyes looked in the moonlight, or how his hair glowed in the warmth of the rising sun. 

Would he ever know those things again?

 

_ “The next time you talk to me about Eddie, it had better be to tell me that you guys made up.” _

 

Yes. He would.

He pushed himself to his feet, took the two steps across the hallway, and knocked on Eddie’s door before he could change his mind.

It didn’t open. Unsurprising, and entirely more disappointing than it had any right to be. It wasn’t like Richie had expected Eddie to answer, flickering dregs of hope be damned. Maybe he should just go back to his own apartment. Maybe he really  _ should _ give up - for good. Maybe he should just accept that his friendship with Eddie was truly over. Even the most beautiful flames must burn themselves out. Maybe he needed to stop obsessing over what was, what could have been, and what never would be, and just move on. 

Maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe that was all bullshit. 

“Eddie,” he began. The sound echoed in the silence of the hallway. “Eds. Look,  I’m not going to ask you to open the door, or to say anything, or even to listen to me if you don’t want to. But I hope you do. Because I need to say this, and I really need to you to hear it.”

There was no reply, but Richie could have sworn he heard shuffling from inside. Maybe that was wishful thinking. He leaned his forehead on the door. His glasses pressed indents into the bridge of his nose.

“You mean everything to me.” The words fell from his mouth quickly, breathlessly, almost sans volition. He made no attempts to stop them “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had; the best I ever could have asked for. I must have done something pretty awesome in a past life to deserve having you in this one. I mean, you’re - you’re  _ amazing _ . You’re so strong, and so brave, and so  _ good _ . Kind hearted, thoughtful. And -” his voice broke. “And I’m sorry that I’m not as good as you deserve. I’m sorry that I’m annoying, and that I talk too much about things that nobody cares about, and that none of my jokes are funny. But you laugh anyway. You always laugh anyway.

“I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Eddie.  _ So fucking lucky _ . You might well be the very best thing that has ever happened to me. Being around you is magical. Even when we don’t talk, it’s enough just to have you near me. I don’t even mind being sad if I get to be sad beside you, because somehow you can even make tears taste a little less bitter just by being there. Just by being  _ you _ . I never feel like a loser when I’m with you. You make me feel like I’m so much more than that. You make me feel like I’m  _ something _ , for the very first time.”

There was a faint sniffle from the other side of the door. Richie imagined Eddie, standing just opposite this piece of wood. Did he have his ear to the door? Was his hand on the knob? There was no way to tell. They were separated by mere inches, and yet somehow lightyears stood between them. Richie closed his eyes.

“I miss you.” It came out as barely more than a whisper. “I miss you so fucking much. I miss seeing you every day, talking to you every day, hearing your laugh every day. And I’m sorry, for everything, and I understand if you’re mad at me, and if you don’t want to see me, but - but I can’t lose you, god dammit. Not seeing you is like - like -” he made a frustrated noise and ran a hand through his hair. He’d never been good with words - at least, not the kind that mattered. “It’s like not seeing the sun,” he tried again. “You’re the fucking sun, Eddie Spaghetti. You’re my  _ best friend _ . I need you.”

Richie opened his eyes in time to watch, with some surprise, a single tear drip from his nose and fall as if in slow motion to the carpet. He hadn’t realised he was crying. 

From the other side of the door, there came another sniffle. And another. Then a small, quickly stifled squeak, as though Eddie had muffled a sob behind a hand. Richie held his breath.

He’d said all he had to say. Now all he could do was wait.

 

***

 

Eddie’s head was spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

_ “I need you.” _

It couldn’t be real.

_ “You’re my best friend.” _

All this time, all of his worrying -

_ “You’re the fucking sun.” _

It had all been for nothing.

_ “I need you.” _

_ “I need you.” _

_ “I need you.” _

“I need you, too.”

His voice was as soft as a ghost’s whisper.

 

***

 

Richie waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, the noises from the other side of the door faded. Richie wondered if he hadn’t imagined them in the first place. Maybe he was just so desperate to hear something -  _ anything  _ \- from Eddie that his mind was playing tricks on him. 

Maybe he really had ruined this.

Maybe it was really time for him to give up.

The tears were falling in earnest now. He straightened, lifted his glasses to wipe his eyes, pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyelids. Images of Eddie burst behind them - lying on his back at the foot of a slide; cross-legged on a rooftop; smiling in a pillow fort; lit by the sunrise in a dilapidated café. Richie pressed harder.

Crestfallen, hopeless, and empty, Richie turned back to his own door. 

“Don’t call me Eddie Spaghetti.”

Richie whipped around, his heart swelling with hope and excitement.

The door was open. 

It was  _ open _ .

In the doorway stood Eddie, backlit by his apartment, clad in pyjama pants and a too-big hoodie. His hair, normally so immaculately combed, looked like a bird’s nest on his head. His eyes were red and puffy. 

He was the best thing Richie had ever seen.

In one quick stride, he closed the gap between them and pulled Eddie into his arms. Eddie melted into him, wrapping his own arms around Richie’s neck and burying his face in his chest with a muffled sob.

“I’m sorry,” he said into Richie’s hoodie. “I’m sorry.”

Richie only hugged him tighter.

For a long time, they didn’t say anything. They simply stood there in the hallway, holding each other as if they never would again, with hot tears staining each others’ sweaters as the sun began to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They!!!!  
> Sorry if I made you cry with this one (no I'm not). Also like the entire first half of Richie's speech to Eddie (like, up to "I miss you", more or less) was written through tears while thinking of my best friend so hey ryleigh this is @ you i love you vv much and i'm sorry I can never say that without crying like a lil bitch ass
> 
> (Also, chapter title is from Dawn of Us by Jackson Wang because 1. it's such a bop and 2. a lot of this chapter was inspired by the lyrics so check it out my dudes https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jdudq9gHJzY


	16. New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I TAKE SO LONG BETWEEN UPDATES GUYS I S U C K
> 
> Math lesson with lysscor:  
> Depression + finals prep + not wanting to finish this fic yet because I'm not sure what to do if not work on maybe, maybe = no updates for a long ass time. However, three essays written in as many days + one more due + not wanting to fuckin do it = an update! Finally!
> 
> Buckle in folks.

If Eddie had thought things between them would go right back to normal, he was sorely mistaken. On the surface, he and Richie were just as close as they had always been. They were back to seeing each other every day. They had resumed their nightly walks, and their long hours talking under the stars. Their pillow fort - which Eddie had disassembled after two weeks of not speaking to Richie, its presence a painful reminder of what he was missing - had made a comeback, twice as good as its predecessor (according to Richie. Eddie thought it was exactly the same as the last). The blankets often saw them awake until the early hours of the morning, teasing each other and trying to throw popcorn into one another’s mouths. 

They had even taken to studying together. With finals drawing ever nearer, they needed all the revision time they could get. They quizzed each other with flashcards, distracted each other when they got too bored, proofread each other’s last-minute assignments. Their papers were everywhere. Neatly printed Business notes intermingled with hastily scrawled Theatre History jottings across Eddie’s living room floor. He couldn’t remember the last time his apartment had been this messy. Probably during last year’s finals.

“What’s another word for  _ bad _ ?” Richie asked. He was laying on his back, holding his notebook up above his head.

“Uh.” Eddie racked his brain. “Negative?”

“Too obvious.”

“Unfavourable?”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”

As the scratching of Richie’s pen filled the room, Eddie tried to go back to his own work, but he couldn’t focus. All he could think about was how he and Richie were practically on opposite sides of the room, and how that had become the norm with them since reconnecting. There was a distance between them that simply hadn’t been present before, and not just a physical one. Eddie noticed it when they sat on the couch and were careful not to encroach on each other’s personal space. When they held eye contact a second too long, and both coughed awkwardly and looked away. When Richie reached for his hand to guide him down a side street, but paused and instead let his arm fall limply back to his side. 

“Give it t-time,” Bill had told him when he’d brought it up a week after Richie’s dramatic declaration. “It’s always weird at first, seeing someone you haven’t s-s-spoken to in a while. You guys will be back to normal in no time.”

Eddie hoped he was right. But he couldn’t help but feel that there was more to it than that. There was uncertainty. Cautiousness, neither wanting to overstep. And, at least on Eddie’s part, there was guilt. Every time he looked at Richie, he remembered his words from that night.

_ You’re the sun. _

_ You’re my best friend. _

_ I need you. _

At the time, they had felt like the sun rising after an endless night - relief, warmth, excitement. But now they felt heavy. They were like a cloud hanging over him. Every time he thought of them, he felt his stomach twist in guilt and anxiety because he  _ hadn’t said anything back _ . He didn’t know if Richie expected him to, or even wanted him to, but Eddie felt like he needed to. The problem was that he had no idea what to say. How was he supposed to even bring it up?

_ “Nice weather we’re having, huh? By the way, I love you too, and I love being your friend but I want to be more than that and I don’t know how to deal with it. Anyway, the snow will probably all be gone soon, don’t you think?” _

Right. Perfect. There was no way that could  _ possibly _ go wrong. 

He sighed. Richie didn’t spare him a glance; with the amount of homework they were both doing, there was no shortage of sighs and groans in the room. He looked over at Richie. He was trying to look focused, but Eddie noticed the note page he was on was filled with more doodles than words. He was currently colouring in a little heart in the margin, and Eddie tried to ignore the way his heart flipped and his finger brushed a heart drawn on his own paper. Richie had doodled it the other day when Eddie had asked him to read over his essay plan. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. It was just a doodle. 

With another sigh, he dropped his pen onto the pages of his open textbook.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

 

***

 

Something was off.

Sure, he hadn’t  _ really  _ expected everything to go back to normal. Contrary to what everyone seemed to think, Richie wasn’t stupid. He knew they wouldn’t be able to pretend the last month had never happened. He knew there would be some awkwardness between he and Eddie.

But he didn’t know it would be  _ this _ bad.

He felt like he was walking on eggshells. He and Eddie seemed to be tiptoeing around each other, each careful not to get too close, not to say too much, not to do anything that might push the other yet further away. He was sick of it. He’d grown so used to the easy chemistry he’d known since first they’d met. The silent conversations, the casual touches, the glances that spoke more than a million words. Now, it was like they couldn’t even meet each other’s eyes. The only physical contact they’d had was when Richie’s hand had accidentally brushed Eddie’s while reaching for the same eraser, and they’d both snatched their hands away as if burned. 

He could feel the wall growing between them. Invisible, but present, separating them more and more fully each day. Soon, he was worried it would push them apart completely. That Eddie would become just another  _ person _ ; that everything between them would become a distant memory. He’d already had a taste of what that might feel like - he never wanted to feel it again.

He couldn’t let that happen. He needed to break the wall. Shatter it from its very foundations.

If only he knew how to do it.

 

***

 

Richie had a backpack when Eddie came out to meet him one night, two weeks later. That was strange enough on its own - he told Eddie all the time that he never carried anything he couldn’t fit in his pockets - but what was  _ really _ fishy about it was his grin. It was a shitty grin - wide and mischievous, like there was some secret joke he was in on and he was just waiting for Eddie to catch up.

“Hi,” Eddie said cautiously.

“Hi.” His voice was shitty too, full of barely contained amusement like he knew something Eddie didn’t.

Eddie narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What’s with the bag?” he asked.

His smile only widened. “You’ll see.” He spread his arms in an  _ after you _ gesture. “Shall we?”

He was still apprehensive, but he supposed there was nothing for it. Richie would just keep pestering him until he followed along. Besides, this wasn’t the strangest Richie had ever acted. “Fine,” he sighed. “But I hope you know, it  _ really _ seems like you’re planning on murdering me tonight.”

“It’s a good thing you trust me then.”

“Shut up.”

Richie didn’t even try to act like he didn’t have an agenda for the night. He led the way shamelessly, pausing every now and then to read street signs and nodding to himself when he confirmed their location. He gave Eddie nothing when he asked where they were going.

His strangely giddy demeanor didn’t become any less strange  _ or _ giddy as they walked. If anything, he seemed to grow even more excited with every step, practically skipping along the sidewalk. A couple times, he even outright laughed at seemingly nothing. Any of Eddie’s attempts to discern what the hell was going on with him were brushed off with joyful “You’ll see”s and “I’m not telling you”s.

“Are you high or something?” Eddie asked eventually, exasperation colouring his voice. They had stopped at a traffic light. There were no cars around, for virtue of it being nearly two o’clock in the morning, but Eddie hated crossing if the light wasn’t green. Richie had long ago stopped pestering him about it.  

“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “Just excited.”

“For  _ what _ ?”

Richie tilted his head pensively, seemingly considering his next words. For a moment, Eddie thought he might actually tell him something useful. But then he smirked, the red light glinting across his teeth and making him look downright demonic. “You’ll see,” he singsonged.

Eddie made a frustrated noise, and Richie laughed. The light turned green. On they walked.

***

 

It was a cold night. The weather had been growing increasingly warmer as the weeks wore on; by now, the snow was all but gone. Tonight, however, the slight wind was deceptively cold. With the promise of summer just around the corner, neither young man had dressed quite as warmly as was necessary. Eddie was in jeans and a pale blue hoodie; Richie (much to Eddie’s chagrin) had opted for shorts and an open hawaiian patterned button-up over a red t-shirt.

It took half an hour to reach their destination. Eddie had long since given up on asking questions and had taken to walking in moody silence, kicking every pebble he could find and glaring accusingly at Richie every time, as if to say  _ you see that? That was your fault. That pebble wouldn’t have been kicked if it weren’t for you _ . Richie’s excitement, however, hadn’t faded a bit, no matter how cold he was or how many pebbles were sacrificed.

Finally, their destination rose in front of them. Richie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the building and turned to face Eddie, grinning.

“Why’ve you stopped?” Eddie asked. “Did you drop something?”

“Do you remember,” Richie said grandly, ignoring his question. “When you told me about Bill’s seventh birthday party?”

Eddie blinked. “The one at the water park,” he said. “That my mom didn’t let me go to because of the all the bacteria in public swimming pools.”

“It was the first birthday party you were ever invited to,” Richie added. “And you cried for hours when she wouldn’t let you go. Right?”

Eddie shifted. “Yeah, but it’s not like there wasn’t a good reason. She was right - swimming pools are crawling with germs. The amount of diseases you could get just from entering the  _ building _ -”

“And to this day,” Richie spoke over him in a movie trailer voice. “You’ve never been to a public swimming pool.”

“Right,” said Eddie. “But I told you all this months ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

Richie grinned. “Why indeed?”

Eddie stared. Richie watched with some amusement as his expression went from confusion to understanding to mild horror. Slowly, as though afraid of what he would see, his eyes drifted to the building behind Richie.

“No,” he said simply.

“Yes,” Richie replied.

“ _ No _ .” He took a step back, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no, no. You know I always go along with your stupid ideas, but this - this is -  _ no _ . I mean, how would we even get in, for one thing, because it’s closed and I’m not getting arrested for your bullshit. And two, there’s a  _ reason _ I’ve never been to a public swimming pool, okay, they’re disgusting. They - they’re - they’re fucking  _ swimming  _ with germs, and no,” he added, seeing the look of delight on Richie’s face. “That wasn’t a pun, shut the fuck up. There’s so many germs it’s not even funny. I mean, do you know how often they clean the pools?  _ Not fucking often _ , that I can tell you. Chlorine is  _ not _ a substitution for  _ actually  _ sanitizing everything. Not to mention the changing rooms; I can smell the mildew from here. Oh my god, there’s probably black mold in every crevice of that building. We’re going to get mold poisoning just from fucking standing here. Richie, if I get mold poisoning, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Mold poisoning isn’t a thing,” Richie said, though really he had no idea. “As for how we get in, it’s easy - we use the front door.”

Eddie glared. “It’s locked, stupid.”

“Not tonight, stupid. Stan works here. He was on closing shift, so he left it unlocked just for us.”

He squinted. “What about alarms?”

“None.”

“Security cameras?”

“They’ve been broken since February,” said Richie patiently. “We’ll be able to get in just fine, okay? I’ve got it all figured out. Just trust me.”

Eddie glared at him. Richie waited, swinging his arms lightly. He knew Eddie would come along. Eddie always came along, no matter how he acted like he didn’t want to. Richie just had to be patient. A breeze blew through. Eddie shivered and ducked deeper into the warmth of his hoodie.

Sure enough, Eddie sighed. “Fine,” he snapped. “I'll come in the building, but only because it’s cold out here. And there’s no way you’re getting me to swim, got it?”

“No swimming,” Richie agreed. “Got it.”

“And don’t even try to convince me to,” Eddie warned.

“I won’t,” Richie lied. “Now come on. We’ve been standing out here like a couple of idiots long enough. Let’s go in. And definitely not swim.”

He knew Eddie didn’t believe him. He knew Eddie would follow him anyway.

He was right.

Of course he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY OKAY OKAY so originally this chapter was a hell of a lot longer but i was nearing four thousand words and not even close to being done so I've split it into two (possibly three?) parts. Down side: shorter and lamer chapter. Bright side: next one is practically done already and it's a pretty darn good one if i do say so myself. 
> 
> I'll see y'all in a week.


	17. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'lL sEe YaLL iN a weEk"  
> I mean... it was BARELY more than a week, right? Right?
> 
> Life update: I'm done high school in like.... three days. What the fuck.  
> Life update: my crush has a girlfriend. They're super cute together so I can't even be mad about it.  
> Life update: a cute guy asked me for my number a few days ago, and he's pretty cool but also really boring. But the way he asked me was so cute I might write a minific based on it. Any ship requests for that?
> 
> Anyway. I'm pretty happy with this one, all things considered. Can you believe how close we are to the finish line?

As Richie had promised, the door was unlocked. Eddie would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed by this - had it been locked, he may have been able to convince Richie they should just go home - but his discontent was quickly replaced by relief when no alarms rang out into the night. Instead, the front door swung gently closed and plunged the lobby into a ghostly silence.

It was properly terrifying. On top of the place being completely empty, the lights had all been turned off at closing time, casting creepy shadows across every surface. This, added to the lobby’s haunting quietude, made Eddie feel like he was in a horror movie and about three seconds away from being stabbed to death or dragged away by a demon. He shivered. It took all of his willpower not to cling to Richie’s arm like a frightened child, as he had so many times before.

“Well,” whispered Eddie. “I came in. Can we go home yet?”

“No way,” Richie replied at a normal volume. His voice echoed eerily. “The lobby doesn’t count. We have to at least go into the pool area.”

Eddie sighed. He had thought Richie would say that. It had been worth a try, anyway.

They bypassed the changing rooms (“What’s the point of even going in there?” “It’s part of the _pool experience_ , Eds.” “How about you go fuck yourself, Richie? And _don’t call_ _me Eds_.”) and opted instead for the glass door that led directly from the lobby to the pool’s sitting area. It was a small section of tiled floor with a handful of lawn chairs for parents observing their children. A small white fence, about knee height, separated the area from the pool.

It was damp and  _ disgustingly  _ hot and smelled exactly how Eddie had always imagined a public pool would smell - musty and mildewy, with such a strong odour of chlorine that his head was already starting to hurt. He could practically  _ see  _ the bacteria in the hot, humid air. He shut his eyes.

“Ugh,” he said, covering his nose with his sleeve. The echoes were even more prominent here, a hollow repetition of Eddie’s voice filling the room. “It’s even worse than I expected.” 

“That’s only because you haven’t looked properly,” Richie said smugly.

Eddie frowned, opening his eyes enough to glare at the other. “What are you talking about?”

Richie gestured at the pool ahead of them. Reluctantly, Eddie looked - and his jaw dropped.

The place was decorated like a child’s birthday party, albeit a very sloppy one. Streamers dangled messily from the rafters, as though someone had simply tossed them at the ceiling in the hopes that they would catch. Some had clearly not; they floated morosely in the pool like psychedelic seaweed. Colourful balloons were tied to diving boards and balloon weights, though quite a few had come loose and bounced against the rafters. To cap it all off, a banner, clearly handmade, was hung from the string of backstroke flags. It read  _ Happy Seventh Birthday, Billy Boy _ , in what Eddie recognized immediately as Richie’s disjointed handwriting.

“Ta-da!” said Richie proudly, doing jazzhands in the direction of what Eddie could only assume was his handiwork.

Eddie was awestruck. “What is this?” he breathed.

“Bill’s seventh birthday party,” Richie grinned. “Or a recreation thereof. Sorry I couldn’t get any seven year olds here to complete the birthday party vibe - not for lack of trying, of course, but it turns out that parents don’t appreciate a strange man inviting their children to a swimming pool late at night, no matter how heartwarming his reason is. Which, okay, I should have foreseen, but you know. Hindsight. 20/20. Whatever. I  _ did  _ bring cupcakes.”

Eddie turned slowly, taking in the sight in front of him. “You did all this?”

Richie nodded. “Stan helped me put up the banner, and Bev played lookout for us - you should really meet them one of these days; you would love them - but for the most part, yeah. I did. It wasn’t that hard,” he added, at the shocked and impressed look on Eddie’s face. “I mean, the banner took forever to make, and balloons are a hell of a lot harder to tie to things than you would think. Also, decorating the cupcakes was - uh… well…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. “You know.”

Eddie was lost for words. He couldn’t believe it. Richie had done this - had taken the time and effort to plan a night, make decorations, risk not only his own safety but his best friend’s job to set them up, make  _ cupcakes _ \- all for  _ him _ . To let Eddie experience something he’d missed out on twelve years ago. The fact that Richie had even remembered Eddie telling him about it, when anyone else would have filed it to the “useless information” compartment of their brain, among favourite colours and birthday gifts - it was the stupidest, sweetest thing. Eddie felt like crying.

“Idiot,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Richie grinned. “I know. But I wanted to.” He bumped Eddie’s shoulder with his own. It was a casual movement, something he had done a million times before, but Eddie sensed the caution behind it. 

“What do you think?” Richie asked gently. There was something in his voice that made Eddie think he wasn’t just talking about the pool. Eddie looked up to meet his hopeful eyes, wide and vulnerable in the dark. Suddenly, it made sense. It was more than just a question, just like it had been more than just a nudge to the shoulder. Just like this was more than just a recreation of a seven year old’s birthday party. 

It was a peace offering. It was the board he placed across the gap that had been growing between them; the bridge for Eddie to cross. It was the Hello Kitty Band-Aid he was sticking on their friendship. And when he asked,  _ What do you think? _ Eddie knew that what he meant was  _ Are we okay? _

He elbowed Richie softly in the side, smiling at his feet. “It’s perfect,” he said.

_ Yes _ , he meant.  _ We are. _

 

***

 

_ Crash _ .

The wall crumbled to dust, and Richie stood amongst the rubble.

He was smiling.

 

***

 

“I told you already, I’m not going to,” Eddie was saying. 

“C’mon Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie pouted. He had removed both of his shirts and his glasses, and was standing between Eddie and the water in all of his pale, scrawny glory. His arms were outstretched invitingly. “It’ll be fun! Trust me.”

“No way in hell. The water is crawling with bacteria - from  _ strangers _ . Who knows what kind of diseases are swimming in there?”

“ _ Swimming _ ?” Richie grinned.

“Shut up.”

“They clean the pool once a week,” Richie told him. “Replacing the filters, using disinfectants - the works. Stan was in charge of it today, and he’s a bit of a germaphobe too, so you can be sure that the only germs you’ll find in that water will be mine.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “That’s hardly a comfort. When’s the last time you showered?”

“With your mom last night,” Richie shot back. He crossed his arms, ignoring Eddie’s look of disgust. “You know, I’m starting to think you just don’t know how to swim.”

“Wha - of course I know how to swim, asshole,” Eddie sputtered indignantly. “I practically grew up swimming in the quarry back home. I just don’t want to swim in  _ that _ .”

“Mmhmm,” hummed Richie. “Sounds like something someone who doesn’t know how to swim would say.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re just trying to goad me into it.”

“Is it working?”

“ _ No. _ ”

Richie laughed and stepped forward to grab Eddie’s hands. “Come on. Just get  _ near  _ the water, okay?”

Even in the darkness of the empty pool, Richie could see the pink of Eddie’s cheeks. “No way,” he snapped, tugging his hands away. “You’ll push me in.”

“I won’t,” Richie assured him. He took his hands again. “I promise.”

Eddie tried to glare at him, though it looked more like a childish pout. Richie gave him a winsome grin _. _

“Fine,” Eddie huffed. “I’ll get near the water. But I’m  _ not  _ going in. God, I hate that you always get your way.”

With much coaxing and some gentle tugs, Richie managed to get Eddie to stand right at the edge of the pool, his toes nearly curling over the edge. He didn’t seem especially anxious - just annoyed, and a little grossed out. Richie couldn’t help but feel a little proud of Eddie. Not so long ago, he would have needed his inhaler just to enter the building; now, he practically had his toes in the water and was perfectly fine.

He hoped Eddie was as calm as he looked. Otherwise, Richie knew he would seriously regret his next move.

“You don’t have anything in your pockets, do you?” he asked after a few minutes of standing near the edge. He pitched his voice as casually as he could so as not to arouse suspicion. Of course it had the opposite effect.

“Just my keys,” said Eddie carefully. “Wh -  _ Tozier if you don’t let me go  _ -”

Richie had grabbed him tightly around the waist, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. “Hold your breath,” he said cheerfully, ignoring Eddie’s flailing feet.

“ _ Don’t you fucking dare - _ ”

Richie jumped. 

Eddie screeched.

For a brief moment, they were suspended midair, Richie cheering and Eddie kicking out furiously - and then they hit the water with an enormous splash. Eddie’s movements became even more frantic underwater, flailing desperately like a fish on a line. He freed himself from Richie’s grip with a well-placed kick and pushed himself to the surface. Richie followed.

His head broke the surface. He blinked water out of his eyes, laughing - and was immediately pushed back under.

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Richard!” Eddie howled when the other came up again, coughing and sputtering through his laughter. He tried to hit Richie in the chest, but he only managed to splash him. “You piece of shit! You promised you wouldn’t do that.”

“I promised I wouldn’t  _ push you _ ,” Richie corrected, subtly trying to inch out of Eddie’s reach to avoid being dunked again. “And I didn’t. Don’t you love splitting hairs?”

“You fucking - you shitty little - ” Eddie made a frustrated noise and splashed at him again. “ _ Why the fuck would you do that, asshole _ ?”

“It got you in the water, didn’t it?” Richie grinned. “And look - you’re completely fine.”

If looks could kill, Richie would have dropped dead under the glare Eddie was giving him. But despite the murder in his eyes, he looked more ridiculous than intimidating. His hair was plastered to his face and his sopping hoodie billowed out underwater around him, making him resemble an especially angry jellyfish. Richie couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Eddie growled.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Richie retorted, already swimming away.

“Oh, I fucking  _ will _ .”

Richie turned and swam away, trying to put as much distance between himself and Eddie as he could. Eddie tried to follow, but his sweater weighed him down; with some splashing and flailing he managed to remove it and leave it floating along behind him.

Richie was surprised by how fast of a swimmer Eddie was. Despite the other’s headstart, he caught up to Richie in record time and flung himself at his back, catching him by the shoulders and forcing him underwater. Richie twisted away and popped to the surface, dripping hair hanging in his face like a cartoon dog’s. Eddie laughed. Richie splashed him. Eddie splashed back and Richie dodged right into a stray red streamer. The sopping paper stuck to his nose like papier maché.

Eddie snorted. “You look like an idiot.”

“Oh really?” Richie carefully moved the streamer so that it laid flat across his upper lip like a mustache. “What about now, my good sir?” he asked in a posh British accent.

Eddie scoffed, and Richie wiggled his eyebrows, and suddenly they were both laughing so hard it hurt and the echoes were so loud that there was no way they wouldn’t be heard by someone but Richie found that he didn’t especially care. Because he was here, and Eddie was here, splashing around in a soaked t-shirt among multicoloured paper ribbons and looking happier than Richie had seen him in ages.

And they were laughing.

And they were okay.

And the echoes of their laughter were just like them - boundless.

 

***

 

Eddie couldn’t be sure of how long they swam. Inside, without the guideline of the lightening sky, time became a dream. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. But when they finally hoisted themselves out of the pool and onto towels Richie had brought, exhaustion had settled deeply into Eddie’s bones. He lay flat on his back in his sodden clothes, eyes closed, panting as though he had run a marathon.

“Tired?” Richie asked.

Eddie hummed in assent. 

“D’you wanna go home?”

Eddie hummed in disapproval. “Not yet. Too tired. ‘Sides, my clothes are all wet. I’ll freeze to death.”

“About that,” Richie said. Eddie opened his eyes to see him pull sweatpants and a hoodie out of his backpack with an abashed grin. 

“They’re probably way too big for you,” Richie said quickly. “But they’re dry.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “And you brought them specifically for me?”

“Yes,” Richie said proudly.

“Because you knew my clothes would get wet.”

“Yes.”

“Because you were planning to throw me in the water from the very start.”

Richie grinned. “No comment.”

“ _ Asshole _ .”

Richie’s laughter bounced from the walls. Eddie closed his eyes again, listening. It was such a wonderful sound. He had never told Richie how much he loved his laugh, had he? He really should.

Minutes passed. At some point, Richie laid down beside Eddie, close enough that he could feel his body heat pervading the space between them. For a long time, the only sound was that of their steady breathing.

“How do you do it?” Eddie asked suddenly. He felt Richie shift beside him.

“Do what?” His voice was thick. He must have been nearly asleep.

Eddie turned onto his side, opening his eyes to look at the other. Richie hadn’t put his glasses back on. His eyes were hauntingly bright. “How do you be so brave all the time?” Eddie asked.

Richie’s face flushed red enough that Eddie could see it even in the dim light, a bemused laugh escaping him. “You think I’m brave?”

Eddie shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. He picked at a loose thread on the towel. “I mean. Yeah. Compared to me at least. I’ve lived my whole life being terrified - of  _ everything _ . Sickness, injury, people - the  _ dark _ .” He counted them off on his fingers. “I can’t even leave my house sometimes because I’m so scared of so many things that I don’t even know what I’m afraid of anymore. And then you come along and it seems like you’re not afraid of anything. Nothing fazes you. You do everything like it’s so easy, like nothing bad could ever happen. It’s -”  _ amazing _ . He felt his face flush. “It’s ridiculous.”

Richie laughed, embarrassed. “You think?”

Eddie shrugged again. “I wish I could be brave like you.” He inwardly cringed. The words escaped him before he could be sure of what he was saying; out loud, they sounded childish. Peevish, even. 

Richie looked shocked. “Wha - you  _ are _ , Eds. You’re so fucking brave.”

Eddie laughed mirthlessly. “Right. Sure. Did you not hear what I just said? About being terrified of everything?”

“But that’s what  _ makes  _ you brave.” Eddie frowned, confused. Richie sat up and leaned towards him. The soft light glinted in his eyes, huge and bright without his glasses. “You’re scared of things,” he said. “Sure. But you always face your fears, right? You do things that scare you every single day. Hell, look at you right now - sitting on the dirty floor of a public swimming pool. You’re doing something you’ve been afraid of doing for twelve years. What could be braver than that?”

Eddie looked down at his hands, his face flaming. He supposed Richie had a point. He  _ had _ done a lot of things he was afraid of the last few months. Climbing a rickety old fire escape on New Year’s Eve to better see the fireworks. Walking in the middle of the road, just because he could. Swimming in a public swimming pool, something he hadn’t done in all his life, and actually  _ enjoying it _ . He’d been terrified each of those times, convinced he could never do it. But he had. He had done all of them, and more. Wasn’t that brave?

He shook his head. Sure, they all seemed grand and brave  _ now _ . But the truth was, he hadn’t done them out of courage. He would never have done any of it if Richie hadn’t pushed him to.

“I think you make me brave,” he said softly.

“No,” said Richie. “You’re always brave. I just make you show it.”

Eddie felt his cheeks warm. He turned his face towards the ceiling. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Course I am,” replied Richie. Eddie could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Hey,” said Richie after a moment. “Do you want a cupcake? After all the effort it took to make them, it would be a shame if we didn’t eat them.”

Eddie pictured Richie in his kitchen, icing on his nose and flour in his hair because he couldn’t do anything without making a mess of it, piping icing onto a cupcake with the utmost concentration. He laughed, the reverberations filling the room once again. 

“Sure.”

 

***

 

“Richie?”

“Mmm?”

“You didn’t  _ actually _ try to get a bunch of seven year olds to come to a closed swimming pool in the middle of the night, right? Because that’s definitely illegal in more ways than one.”

“Of course not. That was totally a joke.”

“Good.”

“I did ask Stan to invite his younger cousin and her friends -”

“ _ Richie _ !”

“But he said no! Relax!”

“Oh my  _ fucking  _ god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending feels a tad bit rushed to me, but I've been working on it for so long that I think any more editing will just make it worse. Plus I've made you guys wait long enough. Please forgive.
> 
> ALSO I wrote a lot of this sitting outside while the sun was setting and honestly?? Best way to write, heckin inspiring,10/10 would recommend.
> 
> See you next time for the grand finale!


	18. Don't Ever Let It End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM NOT DEAD
> 
> I am honestly so, so, SO sorry this took so long. Between travel, anime conventions, apartment hunting, depression, packing, my computer breaking, my girlfriend (!!! girlfriend!!! she's my girlfriend!!!!) moving, trying to see old friends before i move, ACTUALLY moving -- writing hasn't veen a Top Priority. But here we are!!! The final chapter!! At long last!!!  
> (Also this is a Long Ass chapter so buckle up)

* * *

 

Eddie felt small.

Not in the weak, frightened way he was used to. This was different. This was peaceful. Walking back to the apartment with Richie by his side, drowning in Richie’s too-big sweatpants and hoodie, Eddie felt strangely protected. Richie’s clothes were soft, and warm, and they smelled like just like him. The clouds were just barely beginning to lighten with sunset, bathing the world in a soft purple glow. In spite of the cold, and his dripping hair and aching limbs, and the ends of the pants that he kept stepping on, Eddie didn’t think he’d ever felt more at peace. It was as though the enveloping warmth of Richie’s clothes were a shield; a barrier between Eddie and the rest of the world. He felt like a child, wrapped in a blanket as though to protect himself from whatever might hurt him. He buried his nose further into the hoodie, breathing in the scent of Richie mixed with his own chlorine-stained skin. Hidden behind the fabric, he smiled.

He felt small. He felt safe.

 

***

 

Eddie looked small.

Smaller than usual. He was practically swimming in Richie’s clothes, the hoodie reaching nearly to his knees and the sleeves covering his fingertips. It was so cute. It was all Richie could do to not squish his cheeks, or pull him into a hug, or hold his hand inside the sleeve of his sweater and swing it between them. Richie watched him tuck his nose into the hoodie, watched his eyes crinkle in a secret smile.

He looked small. He looked cute.

Under the violet sky of dawn, wet hair shining in the light, he looked downright celestial.

 

***

 

Two weeks passed, and with them did the snow. Winter had finally eased the Earth from her icy clutches and given way to a reluctant spring. Puddles were abundant, and rain clouds seemed to hover perpetually over the city, ready to release their cargo at a second’s notice. Eddie had taken to wearing rubber boots and carrying an umbrella with him at all times. Richie, for his part, had made no change from his regular sneakers and t-shirts.

Said sneakers were currently soaked, as were the legs of his jeans all the way up to his knees. He always made a point to splash through every puddle he passed, though it made his feet so wet it sounded like a swamp when he walked. To his credit, Eddie barely nagged him about it. He even joined Richie sometimes, kicking up water like a child.

(“It’s fun,” he’d shrugged when Richie asked why he hadn’t needed any cajoling to splash in puddles. “And there’s no harm - I’m wearing rubber boots. You, on the other hand...” He’d wrinkled his nose.

Richie had responded with a spectacular two-footed jump into the next puddle, splashing dirty rain water up to the hem of his t-shirt.)

“Where are we _going_?” Richie was whining now. He had been taken completely by surprise when Eddie had come bouncing down to their streetlight earlier that night with a bag slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face.

“You’ll find out,” Eddie smirked, and Richie knew what he was thinking: _See how it feels?_

He sighed heavily. _Annoying_. “I swear on my life,” he said. “I’ll never do this to you again.”

“Good.”

“Just tell me where we’re going.”

“No.”

Richie sighed again, and jumped into a puddle. Eddie laughed.

 

***

 

There was a forest near the park. Not a _real_ forest, with bears or deer or interesting plants, but an urban forest. It was more a collection of trees than anything, but it was dense enough that the only people who usually went through were teenagers looking for a semi private space to go about their illicit activities. Because of this, there was a trail leading into the trees - a small path where the grass was beaten down and branches had been pushed to the sides - that led to a clearing some ways in. It was a subtle little trail, the sort that wouldn’t be seen unless one was looking for it. Eddie only knew about it because Bill had found it once with his boyfriend (he _really_ didn’t want to think about the sort of _illicit activities_ the two had conducted in the privacy of the clearing. The thought alone was almost enough to make him turn right around and walk home). He had never seen it, however, so finding it was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated, especially in the dark. _Especially_ with Richie chattering away at his ear.

“Are you sure you’re not lost?” Richie was asking him, for the millionth time.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m sure,” he lied. “It should be right around - _here_ !” He stopped walking, pointing excitedly at a blue ribbon tied around a tree branch - the place marker Bill had left for him. “I _told_ you,” he said proudly. “I knew I would find it.”

“Find… a tree?” Richie laughed, bemused. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “No, idiot, it's past the tree. The tree just means I'm at the right spot.” He peered past the tree, into the semi-dense wood. It was… _really_ dark. Even in the daytime he imagined it would make him nervous, let alone in the middle of the night. _Anything_ could be lurking in there - rabid animals, poisonous insects, crazed murderers _._ Not to mention the poison ivy, or the drug needles, or (oh god) _used condoms_ -

He shook his head as if to rid it of his owb paranoid thoughts. No. He was doing this. With a deep breath, he produced a flashlight from his pocket, and turned it on with a loud _click_. He shined it into the darkness. “Let's go,” he said firmly.

“Into the trees?” He sounded incredulous, as though he couldn't believe _Eddie_ was the one to suggest this.

Eddie bristled at the implications of his surprise. “Yes,” he snapped, fear tinging his voice with more aggression than he had intended. He took a step past the marked tree. His foot fell on a stray branch which snapped loudly in the silence. He winced.

Richie was, of course, right behind him. “What's the bag for?” he asked, unafraid as ever.

Eddie huffed. “You'll see.”

 

***

 

The trees opened up to not quite a cliff overlooking not quite a river. It was a small area, with long yellow grass lying flat from the months of snow. They could hear the water flowing gently below them, barely more than a trickle really. On the other side of the river, the forest continued. In the darkness, the trees seemed to stretch on forever, although Richie knew it couldn't be much more than a couple of kilometers.

“Here we are,” Eddie said. “Bill told me about it. I thought it would be kind of cool. I also brought -” he shrugged his bag off his shoulder and dropped it unceremoniously on the ground.

Richie watched as he unpacked it, taking out first a checkered blanket. Next was a container of what looked like chocolate chip cookies. A bottle of some dark liquid. A Ziploc bag of -

“Tuna sandwiches?” Richie laughed.

Eddie blushed. “I remember you said they're your favourite.” He thrust the blanket towards Richie. “Now help me spread this out.”

Richie took the proffered edge. “Are we having a picnic?” he asked as Eddie pulled the blanket straight. “Is that what's happening here?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” He lowered his end of the blanket to the ground. Richie followed suit. They both straightened.

“You were saying,” Eddie mumbled, somewhat uncertainly. “Back when it was still cold out, that you wanted to have a picnic. Remember?”

Richie grinned. He had in fact said that, months ago, on a night too cold to even think about setting foot outside. He'd almost forgotten. “So let me get this straight. You dragged me out to this secret clearing in the woods even though you're terrified of the dark -”

“I wouldn't say _terrified_ ,” Eddie muttered defensively.

“And you brought my favourite type of sandwich - which I don't think I could have mentioned more than twice, by the way -”

“Okay, you've told me at _least_ seventeen times that you love tuna sandwiches.”

“And you even brought a _checkered blanket_ for possibly the most cliché picnic in the history of picnics -”

“Okay!” Eddie threw up his arms, exasperated. “I get it. It was stupid.”

Richie laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the coolest thing anyone has ever done.”

Eddie blinked. “Really?”

“Of course, Spaghetti Head.” He flopped crossed-legged onto the blanket, grinning up at Eddie, and patted the space beside him. “Toss me a sandwich. I'm starving.”

Eddie sat beside him, passing the bag over. “Don't call me that.”

Richie pointed a foot at the bottle, ignoring him. “Is that wine?”

“Yes.”

Richie grinned. “My, oh my,” he swooned theatrically. “How _romantic_.”

Eddie sputtered, face aflame. “I - it's not - _shut up_.”

 

***

 

Hours later. The food was gone, as was most of the wine. The night was oddly warm for early spring, none of winter's chill lingering in the air despite the soft breeze and the overcast sky. Not that Eddie was complaining.

They were lying side by side, the wetness from the grass seeping through their shirts. They didn’t mind. It reminded them of another time, so many months ago, looking at the stars as snow soaked their bones. There were no stars this time. Clouds danced across the sky in their place, though they themselves were a beautiful sight: an oil painting of deep blues and steely grays on a pitch black canvas.

“You never did answer my question,” Richie said suddenly.

Eddie didn’t move his gaze from the sky. He was thinking that one particular cloud resembled a bunny. “Which question?” he asked sleepily.

“The one I asked you ages ago,” said Richie. “The first time I made you walk in the middle of the road. Remember?”

Eddie thought back. The bunny shifted, so that it now looked more like a man on a horse. “You asked me what I wanted to do with my life,” he recalled. “And I told you -”

“That you would do what your mom wanted you to do. And that you hadn’t thought about what you actually wanted. Right?”

“Right…”

“Well?”

At that, Eddie looked at him, a confused frown colouring his expression. “ _Well_ , what?”

Richie rolled his eyes. “ _Well_ , have you given it any more thought, dumbass.”

    Eddie shrugged wordlessly. He turned his eyes back to the sky, watching the man on his horse slowly stretch and change.

In all honesty, he had tried to. He had spent hours trying to imagine his future, but every time he did, he’d come up blank. He didn’t have any particular skills, like Richie did with theatre, and nor did he have any real passions, like Bill and his writing. He had never had lofty dreams as a child - his mother had shot them down before they were even fully formed - so he didn’t even have that to fall back on. Logically, the best course of action for him would be a doctor, given his already fairly extensive medical knowledge, but he would be too worried about catching his patient’s diseases to effectively treat them.

    “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I guess I’m okay with doing what my mom thinks is best, because she’s probably right. Besides, I’ve never had it any other way. I’ve never really had to make my own decisions.”

    Richie frowned. “Never? In your whole life?”

    The cloud had begun to resemble a dragon. “Not major ones,” Eddie said. “I think the only big choice I ever made on my own was leaving for college, and my mom even had a hand in that one - sort of. Look, that cloud there looks like a dinosaur.”

    “More like a lion, I think.” Richie wrinkled his nose. “So you mean she wanted you to go to college?”

    Eddie laughed, shook his head. “Not even close. She did her absolute best to convince me that I _couldn’t_ go far away. She was always telling me that I wouldn’t be safe without her to take care of me. She really made me believe that I wouldn’t be able to survive on my own. You know,” he added. “It kind of does look like a lion.” He watched the lion's legs stretch out. “Plus there was the guilt. She told me every day that she needed me at home, that she would be _so_ lonely without me, that I was _everything_ to her and I couldn’t just leave her all alone.”

_I’ll miss you so much I’ll die, Eddie Bear_.

Because of that, Eddie explained, he hadn’t applied anywhere for almost a year after graduating high school. It had taken months for Bill to convince him to apply for a college three hours away from their hometown, and even longer to convince him to actually enroll after being accepted. He had nearly missed the enrollment deadline because of his hesitation. Bill had practically had to enroll Eddie himself.

“In the end,” he went on, “It was pretty much her insistence that I couldn’t leave home that made me do it. I guess I was just tired of it all. I didn’t want to live my whole life depending on her, doing everything she said, believing everything she told me. I wanted to prove that I could make it on my own - to myself as much as to her.” He paused, another thought coming to him. “It was like the placebos.”

Richie blinked. “The _what_?”

“The placebos,” Eddie repeated. “She made me think I needed all these sorts of medications for most of my life. It wasn't until this girl who used to bully me told me they were fake that I realized it was always just a way for my mom to control me. So that I would have to depend on her.” He’d been thirteen at the time.

    Richie was silent. Eddie looked over at him.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

    “Just - you’ve never told me that much about your mom before.” He paused. Eddie could tell he wanted to say more, but didn’t know how.

“And?” he prompted, not unkindly.

“I mean…” He paused again. His next words came out in a rush. “I could tell she was controlling, from what you’ve already said, but that’s - that’s almost abusive, isn’t it?”

    Eddie paled. His heartbeat began to pick up speed. “No,” he said simply.

    “But it is,” Richie went on. “She all but locked you in a fucking tower, Eds. She controlled your every move, she made you think you couldn’t do anything without her - she gave you _placebos_ so that you would depend on her more. Those all sound like abuse to me.”

    “I - no,” Eddie said again. His breath was starting to become short, and he could feel his hands beginning to shake because what Richie had said was _true_ , it was all true, but it _couldn’t_ be true at all. “ _No_ ,” he repeated, more firmly, almost desperately. “You’re wrong. You don’t know all of it.”

    “But -”

    “ _Beep beep_.”

Richie didn't know what he was talking about. Eddie's mom loved him. She loved him, and protected him, and she only ever wanted what was best for him. Sure, she didn’t always go about it the right way. But it wasn’t _abuse_. Abuse was black eyes and broken bottles and parents screaming. Abuse was violent. His mom wasn’t like that. She had never been like that.

    “It was because she loved me,” Eddie said. His voice was shaky.

    “Okay.”

    “I’m her only son. She was just worried about losing me.”

    “Okay.”

    “She loves me more than anything else.” He didn’t know why he was still talking. He thought that maybe, if he didn’t, he would start to cry.

    Richie took his hand. Eddie held on to it like a lifeline. “It’s okay, Eds,” said Richie, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “I believe you.”

    Eddie nodded. And he kept nodding.

    The problem was, he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

    He looked back up at the sky. The shapes were gone. The clouds were only clouds now.

 

***

 

    The tension wasn't unbearable, all things considered, but Richie still felt like an asshole. Eddie's relationship with his mother was complicated at best, Richie knew, but they were still close. It was tactless of him to suggest she was abusive, true though it might be.

    But he couldn't say that yet. Eddie clearly didn't want to talk about it, even if all Richie said on the matter was an apology.

    He had to lighten the mood. He had tried pointing out shapes in the clouds, but the only responses he'd received were noncommittal “mm”s and “yeah”s. Even pointing out a large phallic cloud had earned him nary a smile.

    Finally Richie sighed, sat up, and began to unlace his sneaker.

    “What are you doing?” Eddie asked. His voice carried a hint of curiosity. It was something, at least.

    Richie finished kicking off his shoe and wiggled his toes at Eddie, grinning. Soon, his left shoe joined the first, quickly followed by both of his socks. He stood, stepped off the blanket and placed his bare feet onto the grass. He couldn't help but wince from the cold, though he covered it quickly with a grin. He held out a hand to Eddie.

    “Dance with me?”

    Eddie looked unimpressed. “There’s no music.”

    “Doesn’t matter.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, swaying his hips to an imaginary beat. “Who needs music with moves like mine?”

    Predictably, eyes were rolled. “You dance like an old man.”

    “You dress like an old man,” he shot back. He spun in place, holding his arms in front of him as though twirling with a partner. “You’re really missing out,” he said. “Few people get the absolute honour of dancing with a master such as myself.”

    Eddie scoffed. “Right, a master who trips on his own feet and crashes into counters.”

    “Hey, you’re the one who hit the counter, Mr. Two Left Feet.”

    “Yeah, but it was your fault.”

    “What’s that?” Richie performed a near perfect pirouette. “I can’t hear you over all this music.”

    Eddie rolled his eyes. But Richie didn’t miss the smile that played across his lips.

    _Success_.

 

***

 

He watched Richie dance. He watched him hop and twirl and wave his arms about to a beat only he could hear. He watched his bare feet slide in the grass and his arms windmill to keep his balance. He watched his curly hair bounce with his every move, and he watched the moonlight glint off of his glasses.

Watching him, everything started to slip away. The fear and doubts and sadness he'd been feeling about his mother all seemed to twist and stretch and morph like the clouds, until they were no more substantial. Maybe it was the wine, settling warm in Eddie’s stomach and making everything seem so much softer.

Maybe it was just the way Richie was smiling - eyes closed, face turned up toward the sky, smiling as though he hadn’t a care in the world. It was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful.

Maybe Eddie was going crazy.

Maybe he was just in love.

It didn't matter. He took off his shoes.

 

***

 

There was no music, but they were dancing.

Dancing on a stage lit by the moon; dancing to the music of their hearts. It was a song that nobody else could hear. But they heard it. They felt it. Felt it as the wind blew their hair around their faces. Felt it as blades of grass bent around bare feet, cool and wet from recently melted snow. They felt it as they crashed into each other, tripped on errant shoes, laughed into the silence of the night.

They felt it.

There was music, and they were dancing.

In the clouds, a face was smiling. Eddie smiled back. The wind blew, and it became a butterfly.

 

***

 

Richie had never much believed in fate. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as destiny, or soulmates, or anything of the sort. There was no higher power that determined what happened or what he did. Whatever happened, happened, and there wasn't always a reason for it. Life was unpredictable that way.

“Eds?” Richie whispered. They were lying side by side again, on the grass this time. The clouds were as thick as ever, though were beginning to take on a faint purple tint from the slowly rising sun. Eddie's eyes were closed, his breathing steady, so Richie was surprised when he replied.

“Mm?”

“I'm sorry for saying that stuff. About your mom.”

Eddie didn't open his eyes. “S’okay,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry for getting so mad. It was just hard to hear y’know?”

Richie nodded, though he knew Eddie couldn't see. “I get it.”

A pause. In their silence, the ever flowing river was loud. The water trickled below them, as gentle and steady as Richie's own heartbeat. A whispering breeze made the grass dance; Eddie shivered. Unthinkingly, Richie held out an arm, inviting him to snuggle closer to his warmth. Eddie did.

It felt so natural, holding Eddie like this. It felt _right_ . Everything did, with them, and had since that very first night. Eddie fit so perfectly in his arms, in his heart, in his _life_.

Richie had never much believed in fate. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as destiny, or soulmates, or anything of the sort. But lying here, listening to Eddie breathing and counting the freckles he had long since memorized, he thought maybe it was time to reconsider.

 

***

 

Eddie rested his head on Richie's chest, listening to the thrum of his heart as he had so many times before. Eyes closed, he lifted a hand to his own throat, pressing his fingers to his pulse point there. If he focused, he could swear his heartbeat matched Richie's exactly - yet another connection between them, as strange and beautiful as any.

He opened his eyes, only to see that Richie's were already open, and looking right at him.

“Are you staring at me?” he asked.

Richie smiled softly. Eddie's heart did a backflip in his chest.

“Maybe,” Richie whispered. “What would you do if I was?”

Eddie regarded him steadily. His glasses seemed to glow in the moonlight. “Nothing,” he whispered. “What would you want me to do?”

He grinned a Cheshire grin. “Something.”

“Like what?” Richie's fingers were in his hair. Eddie fought back a shiver.

“I think you know what.” Richie's voice was melted chocolate - deep, thick, unlike Eddie had ever heard it.

_Yes_ , Eddie realized. He knew exactly what. _Something_. Something he'd been wanting to do for months. Something he had convinced himself Richie could never want. Something that had completely terrified ever since the thought first entered his mind.

Something.

Something it was about time he actually did.

He propped himself on an elbow, leaned in, and he kissed Richie Tozier.

Maybe he was a little bit brave after all.

 

***

 

It wasn't anything like the movies.

There were no fireworks, no violins, no racing heartbeats or sweaty palms. It didn't feel like a pivotal moment; like Richie's world was being turned irreversibly upside down.

It felt like waking up to the smell of coffee. It felt like splashing through puddles and kicking pebbles down an empty street. Like cold grass on bare feet and palms scraped on tree bark and sun warmed shoulders. It felt like the rattle of a chain link fence under fingertips, legs dangling off rooftops, fireworks reflected in brown eyes. It felt like a warm sweater, a best friend's laughter, a favourite song played on repeat.

It felt like home.

He pulled away, and he was smiling.

 

***

 

Eddie's head was spinning when he drew back. He could tell his face was flushed with a combination of cold, embarrassment, and happiness.

“See?” Richie said. In the waning darkness, his smile was brighter than any star Eddie had ever seen. “You didn't need to say anything after all.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie laughed, leaning forward to capture his lips once more.

Richie's arms snaked around Eddie's waist and Eddie slid his fingers into Richie's hair. The water from the grass was sleeping into their clothes, and the clouds were turning from purple to pink, and somewhere nearby a bird was chirping.

In these soft, cold moments of dawn, it seemed the whole world was sleeping. But, Eddie realized as Richie pulled him impossibly closer, his whole world was right here in front of him.

And there was no maybe about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all believe!? It's just done??? I can't believe I actually finished it and I really can't believe the amazing responses I've had on this fic and i know this isnt like... A huge thing or anything but it's a really big milsetone for me so LEMME BE DRAMATIC FOR A HOT MINUTE HERE AND SAY:  
> A huge, huge thanks to everyone who's stuck around this long, especially AmyLee, wheezingbees, stanielthemaniel, and jupiterss for sticking with it from the very beginning. Thank you so much to everyone who has ever commented, or bookmarked, or left kudos because honestly it really means so much to me! Thank you Danny for making me believe in my writing abilities again!! Thank you SO much to Ryleigh for being?? Everything??? My beta reader, my muse, the Eddie to my Richie, my main hype man, my best friend, etc (stopping now before this turns into a long ass appreciation letter to my girlfriend (!!!!!!!!!) but y'all get it)
> 
> For real guys, writing this has been such a blast and honestly? My biggest accomplishment to date. Knowing that you all read it and ENJOYED it makes me so unspeakably happy and really makes me believe I actually can write a real novel one day. So thank you all so much!!!!!


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